


The Son's Song

by Sarra Manderly (TasarienOfCarasGaladhon)



Series: Aemon the Dragonwolf [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Boys just want to be Aemon the Dragonknight, Brienne to the rescue, Cersei is Queen in the South, Dolorous Edd hates prunes, Gen, Guilty Jaime, Identity Reveal, Ignores S7 Spoilers, Independent North, Jaime gets on the road to redemption, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon and Jaime compare notes, Jon is King in the North, Mix of Show and Book Verse, time skip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-10-01 03:56:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10180139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TasarienOfCarasGaladhon/pseuds/Sarra%20Manderly
Summary: Horrified by his sister's actions in King's Landing, Jaime Lannister sails north with a few trustworthy men. There are rumors of an impending invasion from beyond the Wall, and Ser Jaime would much rather die fighting than watch his mad sister, Euron Greyjoy, and Daenerys Targaryen burn the city he saved from Aerys. To his great surprise, the Kingslayer and the King in the North have more in common than they supposed.Then Howland Reed's arrival exposes a long-kept secret, and Jaime Lannister receives a new challenge.





	1. Sansa I

**Author's Note:**

> So...I've been sitting on this one for a while, mostly because I wanted to write another ficlet that would fall before this one chronologically, but my muse insisted on some Jaime first. This is in the same universe as Parley, but while Cersei is still queen in King's Landing.
> 
> As always, I appreciate comments! I'm mixing book and show canon a little bit, so if that's not your cup of tea, this is your warning. Enjoy!

** SANSA I **

 

 

The morning was cold, as were all mornings these days. Winterfell lay under a blanket of pristine snow, with a pale Sun peeking out above the clouds. The castle was an island of noise and activity in the endless, silent white of the North.

 

As Lady Sansa Stark and King Jon Snow strolled along the castle courtyard, inspecting their bannermen's soldiers at their training, the clash of steel and wood was interrupted by a cry of alarm from above.

 

“Your grace! There are riders approaching the gate!” called a watchman from atop the wall.

 

“How many? Do they bear a sigil?” asked Jon.

 

“It's a lion, your grace! There are fifty of them or thereabouts,” the guard replied. “They're raising a flag of truce.”

 

Jon turned to Sansa, his grey eyes questioning. His hand tightened over hers. “You're the expert on Lannisters, Sansa.” _Do we trust them enough to open?_ he asked wordlessly.

 

Sansa looked around the courtyard. Between the local men, Jon's wildlings, and the bannermen's men that had come with their lords, Winterfell had over three hundred men inside. The chances that these fifty southrons would take the castle were slim. Slowly, she made up her mind and nodded her assent.

 

“Open the gates,” Jon ordered.

 

To their great surprise, at the front of the column rode Jaime Lannister. He was much older and thinner than he'd been when Jon had seen him last, though Sansa remembered how gaunt he'd appeared when he'd returned to King's Landing with Brienne. That good lady froze behind Sansa.

 

“What brings the Kingslayer to Winterfell?” asked Ser Davos, stepping forward. The _without an army?_ went unsaid.

 

Jaime looked at him in confusion, possibly trying to place the southron-sounding man among all the Northmen.

 

“I would request an audience with the King in the North,” Ser Jaime replied. “Who are you, ser?”

 

“I am Davos Seaworth, Hand of the King,” replied the older man.

 

Sansa saw Jaime's eyes widen in surprise. “Stannis Baratheon's Hand?”

 

“I was,” replied Davos in his frank way. “But Stannis Baratheon is dead. I serve Jon Snow, the King in the North.”

 

“You must be a good Hand, then,” remarked the Kingslayer, raising a golden eyebrow. “Or a disloyal one. Will King Jon see me?”

 

“I will,” said Jon, leaving Sansa's side. Ser Jaime turned, startled. Sansa saw his eyes widen and his face turn pale, and for a moment she felt gleeful, sure that the man was seeing her father's ghost instead of Jon. Her brother was certainly not the unblooded boy he'd seen during King Robert's visit, with his hardened features, growing beard, and the enormous white direwolf at his side. With his haunted grey eyes, his hair pulled back like Father's, and the cloak she'd made for him, Jon was a young Eddard Stark come again.

 

“Lords of the council, Princess,” Jon said, nodding at the northern lords and Sansa, “Let us go into the Great Hall and hear what Ser Jaime has to say.”

 

“Leave your men and horses here,” Ser Davos instructed. “They will be attended to in your absence.”

 

“And surrender any weapons on your person,” ordered Lord Manderly, “or we shall remove them by force.”

 

Jaime Lannister looked deeply unhappy, but he did as he was bid. Sansa had never seen him so subdued. As he surrendered his weapons, Jon took Sansa's arm and led her inside, where they sat at the high table. Jon sat in the Stark of Winterfell's chair, with Sansa on his right and Davos on his left. The rest of the council filed in, murmuring curiously. No one had any idea what Ser Jaime might want.

 

“His sister means to demand fealty from us,” the Norrey guessed, furious. “She must know we'll _never_ submit to a southron again. They're all mad.”

 

“Even _he_ wouldn't be so bold,” protested Lord Glover. “Walk into his enemy's castle and demand his surrender, with only fifty men? There's some treachery afoot.”

 

“Mayhaps she wants a marriage alliance with the Jon,” the Flint suggested, looking horrified at the very thought.

 

“Well, _that_ is never going to happen,” Jon replied, sounding equally disgusted. “Cersei Lannister, Queen in the North? Never!”

 

Sansa shuddered in relief. If there was one thing she didn't want, it was to be Cersei Lannister's sister again!

 

The chatter ceased as Jaime Lannister walked in, now weaponless. He looked smaller now, without the mocking smile and the glittering armor and white cloak. Dressed in plain leathers and thick wool, with his long, golden hair now short and turning gray, he was a different man.

 

“Very well, Ser Jaime, let's hear it,” sighed Jon, preparing himself for the worst. “What does your sister want?”

 

“I'm not here on her behalf,” the Kingslayer said, to scoffs from the Northern Council. “Cersei has lost her mind. She blew up the Sept of Baelor with wildfire, and is forging an alliance with Euron Greyjoy. She cares nothing for the common people within the city.”

 

“Casterly Rock is _that_ way,” pointed Lord Cerwyn, earning chuckles from the others.

 

“I know where it is,” replied the Lion of Lannister tightly. Sansa could see a haunted expression in those green eyes that hadn't been there when she'd seen him last. “I'm no use there. I heard from a source I trust that you need men here, to defend the Wall.”

 

“We do,” Jon answered, nodding at the Kingslayer. “In fact, part of our army will head north tomorrow, to reinforce the castles along the Wall. But we have a problem, Lannister.”

 

The man waited a moment for Jon to speak. When he did not, he looked at him quizzically.

 

“My council tells me that Lady Catelyn Stark struck a bargain with you, when you were Robb's prisoner. You would go free, in exchange for Sansa and Arya's freedom. As one might expect from a Lannister, you broke that promise.”

 

“Lady Arya was still in the capital when I left!” protested Ser Jaime. “I didn't know she was lost until I returned!”

 

“But Princess Sansa was in the Red Keep,” Lyanna Mormont said coldly. “Did you free her?”

 

“I did not,” the blond man admitted. “She was married to my brother before I could do anything. But I sent Lady Brienne in my stead, when she disappeared from King's Landing” he added, nodding at the lady standing against the wall.

 

“The point remains, Ser Jaime,” Jon finished in his most royal tones, which Sansa had made him practice until he sounded kingly. “The Kingdom of the North offered terms, which you accepted. You did not keep those terms. We've seen nothing of Princess Arya since my father lost his head.”

 

“He attacked Father, too,” Sansa spoke up. She'd almost forgotten about the whole affair, with Father's arrest so soon after. “He attacked Father and his men in King's Landing, and wounded him in the leg. Jory died that day.”

 

Those who hadn't been in King's Landing muttered angrily. Jon's grey eyes were furious.

 

“Your mother kidnapped Tyrion!” the Kingslayer cried, exasperated. “She had _no_ proof that Tyrion had done anything to your little brother, but she dragged him to the Eyrie and your mad aunt Lysa threw him into a sky cell! I just wanted my brother back!”

 

“If you'd waited for the trial, you would have gotten him back!” Sansa replied, her voice rising in anger. “You cut Father down when he'd had nothing to do with it!”

 

“Yes,” said the Kingslayer, looking at Sansa in sudden disdain. “And my sister only arrested Eddard Stark because a red-haired traitor in his camp told Cersei his plans to run home. Little Sansa Stark killed her father long before Ilyn Payne took his head, because she was so _desperate_ to marry sweet, handsome Joffrey, that she turned on her own family. Think on _that_ before you blame me for old Ned's death, and while you're at it, Rickard Stark's death, and the winter, and the state of the roads!”

 

Sansa fell back as if he'd slapped her. The truth of his accusation stung more than any of Ramsay Bolton's twisted punishments, and there had been many of those. _I didn't know_ , she wanted to scream. _How was I to know? Cersei seemed so kind then, so understanding! Oh, Father, what have I done?_

 

“ENOUGH!” shouted Jon, rising to his feet.

 

“How was Sansa, a mere child, to know the depths of your family's dishonor?” the King in the North said, and his men cheered him on. “I know Lady Stark did wrong in kidnapping your brother, but she is long dead, at the hands of _your_ family as well as the Boltons and the scum-sucking Freys. And you, treacherous as you are, remain alive after all this time. So what shall we do with you, Jaime Lannister?”

 

Sansa felt a stab of irritation that Jon would speak ill of her mother, but he was right; it had been a stupid move for Mother to make. After being married to him, Sansa knew Tyrion Lannister better than any Stark, and he would not have murdered a crippled boy. For the first time, Sansa realized that Catelyn Stark had been just as responsible for her ill-treatment at the Lannisters' hands as Robb. It was not a happy thought.

 

“Cut off his head!” shouted Tormund. For once, instead of disagreeing with the wildling out of principle, the Northmen agreed with the Free Folk.

 

“Send him to the Wall! Let 'im freeze his bollocks off with the Watch!” shouted Lord Glover.

 

“The Wall is too good for the likes o' him!” protested the Wull.

 

“Feed 'im to the direwolf!” shouted a Cerwyn bannerman.

 

“Nay, the direwolf is a proper northern beast. It would be sick at the taste o' his southron arse,” one of Tormund's men argued.

 

Jon raised a hand, and the noise died down, surprising Sansa. The Northmen were loud by nature, and not easily dismissed. It was a mark of their respect for Jon (and Father) that they listened to him so readily.

 

“I can see that this will take some thought. While we decide what to do with you, _Ser_ Jaime Lannister, you may have bread and salt in our most comfortable cell. Your men are free to return south if they wish, or they may head north to Castle Black, if they truly came to help.”

 

“You'll have to lock me up with the blond bastard,” said a voice from the past. Sansa looked up, startled to see her first husband's hired killer, Bronn, step out of the shadows and stand beside Ser Jaime.

 

“Loyalty at last? I'm touched,” the Lannister told the sellsword.

 

“Nah, I just figure I could wander up North again, freeze my cock off, or stay here where it's warm and there's food, see?”

 

Jon raised an eyebrow at the odd man. “And who are you?”

 

“Ser Bronn of the Blackwater,” replied the sellsword, ignoring or forgetting Jon's title. “I was the little lord's hired sword, then I taught his brother to fight one-handed.”

 

“A man of many skills, I'm sure,” Jon replied, puzzled. “But I have no cause to lock you in the cells, Ser Bronn.”

 

“Right,” said Bronn cheerfully. He looked around the room, spotted Tormund, and attempted to punch him in the face. He struck the wildling's nose, though not as hard as he'd intended. Immediately, Tormund and five other wildlings had taken his arms and legs, immobilizing him.

 

“I picked a fight in your hall, King of the North,” he said calmly, as though he weren't trapped by men who'd gut him in a flash. “Now you can lock me up and keep your conscience clear.”

 

Sansa saw Jon shake his head in disgust, and motion for his wildlings to remove the two southrons.

 


	2. Jon I

**JON I**

 

Ignoring his council's advice, Jon headed to the dungeons after the midday meal. He was still unsure about Jaime Lannister and his sellsword friend. Had they done something worth a death sentence, or were their actions justified by the War of the Five Kings? If Jon executed them now, would that mean the war had never ended, and had _six_ kings instead of five? He had no ready answer for this.

 

Ghost padded silently alongside his master, a white shadow following a black one. The guards stepped aside without a word as Jon entered, and took a torch to light his way. They hadn't spared more than a single tallow candle for the prisoners. It was barely enough light to identify the lumps on the floor as men.

 

Jaime Lannister lay on his bed of straw, fiddling with a loose thread in his doublet while Bronn of the Blackwater snored. The approaching torchlight gave Jon away at once.

 

“Ah, a visitor,” drawled the Kingslayer. “And you've come to threaten me with your wolf, how quaint. I should tell you that I've already lived through this song and dance with your brother and _his_ wolf.”

 

“I'm sure you pissed your breeches then,” Jon replied, impatience oozing from his every word. “Grey Wind wasn't even full-grown, and he would have killed you at a word from Robb. So will Ghost, if I ask him to. But who said anything about threats, Lannister? Perhaps I fancied a chat.”

 

The blond man snorted. “Yes, the bastard King in the North is so lacking in interesting company that he comes to chat with the likes of _me_.”

 

“Why are you here, Kingslayer? You must have known your reception would be cold up North.”

 

Suddenly, the prisoner laughed, startling his companion into waking. “A cold reception indeed. I had to choose between fire and ice, you see, and I chose ice. Is that so strange?”

 

“I've heard the news of what your sister did in King's Landing,” Jon acknowledged, hanging his torch from the nearest bracket. “A feat worthy of the king you slew.”

 

“It will only get worse,” Jaime confessed. “There aren't many Tyrells left, but those who survived have pledged their support to Daenerys Targaryen, who is coming to Westeros with an army and three dragons, or so say the rumors. The Dornish support her as well, and the Ironborn are split between Euron and Yara Greyjoy. There will be more fire to come.”

 

“And you killed Daenerys Targaryen's father, so she wouldn't be pleased to see you,” Jon added, shaking his head. “You're in a tight spot now, Kingslayer. You're lucky you didn't cut off my father's head, or I'd have killed you outright. The North remembers, and the man who passes the sentence swings the sword. In case you haven't heard, that's _me_ , bastard and all.”

 

For a moment, the man regarded Jon with a strange expression in his emerald eyes. He seemed to be waiting for an accusation that never materialized, and he shrugged.

 

“What will it be, then? Will the _honorable_ Northmen take my head as vengeance for all the wrongs of war?”

 

“Do you deserve death, Ser Jaime?” asked Jon, curious to see what he'd say.

 

Jaime Lannister raised an eyebrow. “I thought Northmen didn't care for such questions. Your father believed my life was forfeit the second I stabbed old King Scab in the back.”

 

"You didn't answer my question," Jon pointed out.

 

"Neither did you. If you're about to take a man's head, you could at least tell him. It's only polite."

 

Jon sighed. He had no idea what he'd expected from Jaime Lannister, but it hadn't been this level of irritation.

 

“I'm not my father,” Jon said finally. “Look at me, Lannister.”

 

Shivering in the cold, Jon untied his jerkin and slowly unbuttoned his shirt, exposing the ugly stab wounds that had ended his service to the Watch.

 

Jaime Lannister turned to look with uninterested eyes, and slowly went pale as he saw Jon's chest. Almost without thinking, the man edged closer, his mouth fallen open in shock. Next to him, the sellsword Bronn took a peek at the show and swore.

 

“How in the seven _hells_ are you alive?” the commoner asked, shaking. “At least two of those are fatal, or I'm a septon, and I ain't no septon.”

 

“Stannis Baratheon came to the Wall with a Red Witch,” Jon explained, buttoning his shirt once more. “When my men stabbed me to death, she brought me back. I swore to die at my post, and so I did, but my oath was _for all the nights to come_. Does that make me an oathbreaker like you, Lannister? Even I don't know. Perhaps my father would have taken my head, along with yours.”

 

Jaime Lannister said nothing, but he regarded Jon with an odd expression of pity. Jon had seen it before, usually on Sansa's face when she caught him half-dressed and saw his scars, or when he woke screaming in the night.

 

He _hated_ that look.

 

“Why'd they do that?” asked Bronn, now immune enough to the spectacle to ask questions.

 

“The White Walkers are coming,” Jon explained. “I saw them myself, at Hardhome. Any man they kill will rise again as a wight, so I negotiated with the Free Folk, to let them south of the Wall. The Night's Watch didn't like that; they'd much rather let the wildlings die and come back to kill us as undead monsters. I tried to save us all, and they murdered me for it.”

 

“So you are reviled for your finest act,” Jaime Lannister said, looking at him with a strange half-smile. “But _you_ managed to do it without becoming the most hated man in Westeros, or gaining a spiteful new name. If I weren't so jealous, I'd congratulate you for a job well done, though you _did_ die in the attempt. No one is perfect, I suppose.”

 

Jon blinked in surprise. A compliment, from _this_ man? Then what he'd said sunk in.

 

“You consider killing Aerys Targaryen your finest act?”

 

The Kingslayer sighed. “You showed me your scars, so I suppose I can tell you,” he said slowly. “Aerys had filled all the tunnels in King's Landing with wildfire. He meant to burn the city to the ground, and everyone in it, rather than lose it to Robert Baratheon. The same wildfire my brother used to fight Stannis Baratheon's fleet, and the same wildfire my sister used to blow up the sept. It was hiding down there for almost twenty years, and no one knew of it but me, after I killed the pyromancers and the Mad King.”

 

Jon's jaw had fallen open during this short tale. “But—you saved the city!” he cried, not comprehending. “Why didn't you tell anyone?”

 

“I swore to keep my king's secrets,” the man replied, raising an eyebrow.

 

The King in the North made a wordless noise of disbelief.

 

“Your father wouldn't have cared,” Jaime explained simply, and the bitter half-smile returned. He took a breath and went on. “In Ned Stark's eyes, I was the oathbreaking, backstabbing son of a child-killer who spent the war comfortable in his castle. Robert Baratheon was happy that I'd done the job for him, and Jon Arryn wanted to bring the Lannisters into his great rebel alliance. They asked no questions they didn't want answered.”

 

For a moment, the King in the North and the Lion of Lannister looked at each other, sincere green eyes meeting serious gray. No one spoke.

 

“I told you I wasn't my father,” Jon said finally. “I meant it. As much as I loved him, he was too honest and honorable for the world we live in. I've had to be more flexible to survive, and even then,” he shrugged, pointing to his now-covered stab wounds, “it's not always enough.”

 

Before Jaime Lannister or Bronn could react, Jon had unlocked their cell, and heaved the door open with a grunt of effort.

 

“I'll have guest rooms made up for you,” he said, hardly aware of what came out of his mouth. “You're welcome to join me for supper tonight.”

 

The two prisoners looked too stunned for words. Then, Ser Jaime Lannister gave Jon a perfectly proper bow, the bow a knight would give the southron king.

 

“As you wish, your grace.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like if anyone could sympathize with Jaime for breaking his vows for a noble cause, it would be Jon. I hope you liked, and the next chapter will be a Jaime POV, as he interacts more with Jon the King, and comes to a startling realization.


	3. Jaime I

**JAIME I**

 

King Jon was as good as his word. He'd asked a reluctant Lady Sansa to find Bronn and Jaime a room in the guest wing of the castle, though it was difficult with so many lords holding court in Winterfell. The two southrons had been happy to find a roaring fire, furs aplenty, and mulled wine in their new quarters.

 

“It's decent, this,” said Bronn, sipping eagerly at some wine. “Not quite up to the level of a Dornish red, but not bad. It'll warm you quick enough.”

 

Jaime wrapped a bear-pelt around his shoulders, shivering. He'd been mad when he'd decided to ride north in winter, though staying in King's Landing would have been madder. Still, he disliked the cold and always would.

 

“You look like a twat,” the sellsword laughed. “It's not that cold, not inside the castle. You ought to sail into the Bay of Seals sometime. You'd be frozen solid _there_.”

 

“You've been north of the Wall?” Jaime asked, surprised.

 

“I have,” said Bronn, not looking up from his goblet.

 

“Well, I won't go,” Jaime decided. “I may go to the Wall if it comes to that, but going any further in winter is insanity. The Northmen may have ice flowing through their veins, but I certainly don't.”

 

“The boy isn't as cold as that,” protested Bronn. “In fact, if he weren't a king, I'd say he's alright. A man that comes back from the dead is a man worth respecting, at least a little. He was stabbed _in the heart_ and lived to tell the tale,” he finished, and the usually unflappable sellsword sounded a little impressed.

 

Jaime snorted. “He may be the king now, but he's only the bastard brother of the last King in the North. Apparently Northmen will forgive bastardy if the boy looks like his father.”

 

Bronn shot Jaime an unimpressed look over his wine. “And southrons will forgive bastardy if even if they don't.”

 

That was a low blow, and Bronn knew it. He went on, unflinching at Jaime's glare.

 

“I may like you and the little lord, but I remember your King Joffrey well enough. He was a cunt and a bastard, both. I can't see King Jon ordering his men to beat a girl when his grandfather loses a battle.”

 

“His grandfather was cooked alive in his armor, but you've made your point,” grumbled Jaime. “Jon Snow is a paragon among bastards, I'm sure. I'm going to nap for an hour or two. Wake me when it's time to eat.”

 

And curling up on his comfortable guest bed, Jaime Lannister closed his eyes and slept. He didn't quite get his two hour nap, however, because another group of riders arrived. They clattered into the Winterfell courtyard below his window, and the Northmen were happier to see them than they'd been to see the Lannister men. Curious, Jaime and Bronn looked out of the small windows and saw a group of leather-clad riders, small in stature, riding in under a grey-green banner.

 

“Is that a lizard-lion?” asked Bronn, squinting at it.

 

“It is,” replied Jaime. He couldn't remember which house owned the sigil, though he knew the lizard-lion was a creature of the Neck, a swamp-dweller. “Looks like the crannogmen are here to visit their king. They're taller than I thought they'd be.”

 

“Maybe they brought frogs for supper,” the sellsword said. Jaime hoped he was joking. “I've had frog soup before. It's not bad in a pinch.”

 

Jaime couldn't help the noise of disgust that escaped his mouth. For all his trials and travels, he'd been raised at Casterly Rock. Not even as a prisoner of war had he eaten frogs.

 

“I'm sure they're delicious,” he told Bronn, shaking his head. “I think I'll have a bath before we dine. Winterfell has some lovely hot springs, you know.”

 

“Go on, get yourself all prettied up for supper with the King in the North,” Bronn replied, still peering out the window.

 

Jaime left, scoffing at his companion. He spent a long time scrubbing the dirt of the road and the salt of the sea from his skin and hair, letting his mind wander to anything but Cersei. Remembering his bath with Brienne, he made a note to speak to her later, and see how she fared among the Northmen. With her naive, honorable nature, she should have fit right in. The North had at least one family of women warriors, so she wouldn't be the odd duck she was back home in the Stormlands.

 

Once his fingers had wrinkled from the hot water, Jaime stepped out of his bath and dressed in a red doublet, the warmest he owned. He felt naked without armor, but he knew the Northmen would do him no harm, not now that they'd given him bread and salt. With a pang, he remembered how his father had stomped all over _that_ tradition, and hoped they wouldn't see Tywin when they looked at him. He hadn't come all this way to be butchered while on the privy.

 

The King in the North was already seated when Jaime entered, chatting quietly with his sister and the lord of the crannogmen, now seated at the high table with the other northern lords. When they saw him, the king gestured for Jaime to sit across from him. The others at the table looked surprised and wary, except for Sansa Stark. Clearly, Jon Snow had spoken with her of his visit to Jaime's cell.

 

“Lord Howland, this is Ser Jaime Lannister,” Jon Snow introduced. “He says he's come to help us against the White Walkers. Ser Jaime, this is Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch.”

 

Jaime finally got a good look at the man, and remembered him. He'd seen him in King's Landing, long ago, before his hair had gone gray and his eyes had gained that look of endless grief.

 

“I remember you,” Jaime said. “You came to the Red Keep. You stood vigil over the girl's bones.”

 

Lord Reed nodded. “I did,” he answered. “It was my honor to guard the Lady Lyanna on her final journey.”

 

“You were holding a babe,” Jaime recalled, sitting next to Lord Reed, then realized the babe was now the king sitting across from him. Jon Snow caught the look.

 

“Me?”

 

“Yes,” Lord Reed answered, smiling sadly. “Ned and I rode to Dorne with five others to rescue Lyanna, and failed—but Ned and I carried you home when we brought her bones to rest here in the crypts. That was after the siege of Storm's End,” he trailed off, lost in his memories.

 

The servants entered then, setting down hearty northern food to stave off the cold. Twisting in his seat, Jaime caught a glimpse of Bronn, chatting away with a group of wildlings. He looked strangely comfortable with them. Perhaps he had truly gone north of the Wall before.

 

“Does that mean you met my mother, Lord Howland?” asked the king, so quietly that Jaime almost missed it.

 

“Of course I met her, long before you were born,” Lord Reed replied, bewildered. Looking at the bastard's face, his jaw dropped. “Ned never told you about her? He said he would, once you were grown.”

 

Jon Snow shook his head, and Sansa gave him a sympathetic smile. “I don't even know her name, or if she's alive or dead. He always said he'd tell me when I was older, but he went south with Robert Baratheon and I never saw him again. I always thought he was too ashamed to say anything in Lady Catelyn's presence,” he finished, looking down at his plate.

 

“Your grace,” said Howland Reed gently, “Ned loved you dearly, as did your mother. It was never shame that kept him quiet—it was fear.”

 

“Fear?” asked Lady Sansa incredulously, and Jaime saw several northern lords look at Howland Reed with renewed interest. “Of what?”

 

“We ought to discuss this in private, Princess,” replied the crannogman, “but your father feared that if King Jon's parentage were known, certain people would wish him dead, even as a babe. He promised her he'd keep you safe, and that meant hiding your true identity.”

 

Jaime was terribly curious, but he knew they would say no more in his presence. He decided to diffuse the tension with a jape.

 

“I always thought Ned had bedded Ashara Dayne,” he said airily. “We all saw them dancing and laughing together at the Harrenhal tourney, and Ned Stark did not dance and laugh with just anyone. Can't fault his taste—she was the prettiest lady at court, if you liked that violet-eyed look.”

 

Lord Reed shook his head. “Ashara Dayne danced with him as a favor to Brandon Stark, Ser Lannister, but no more. Ned was a bit shy then, always compared unfavorably to his older brother.”

 

“Poor Father,” sighed Sansa.

 

“I will speak with you both tomorrow morning, if it please your grace,” offered the crannogman. “It is time you knew who you are, and the consequences will be greater than you know.”

 

Jaime raised an eyebrow, and pretended he wasn't listening as he speared a piece of venison. It had not escaped him that his meat had arrived already cut. He supposed Lady Brienne might have spoken out, or perhaps Lady Sansa, and he was quietly grateful for it.

 

“Gods, that sounds ominous,” Jon Snow replied, startled. “Am I the son of a Skagosi spearwife, or mayhaps a pirate queen?”

 

“I doubt that very much, your grace,” Davos Seaworth spoke up, grinning. “You don't smell of the sea, and an old smuggler would know.”

 

“She can't have been a common fishwife or whore,” the King in the North realized, watching Lord Reed's face for confirmation. “If she'd been some lowborn tavern wench, no one would care enough to want me dead.”

 

Lady Sansa scoffed at that. “Tell that to Janos Slynt! He had all of King Robert's bastards in King's Landing rounded up and killed, even the sons of whores and tavern wenches. Even the babes.”

 

There was an uncomfortable silence, and Jaime caught a few glares aimed in his direction.

 

“I can't tell him anything. I cut off his head at the Wall,” the king said finally.

 

“You did?” asked Sansa, looking at her brother with a sudden smile.

 

“On the Wall, if you don't follow your commanding officer's orders, you die. He thought he needn't follow his Lord Commander's orders if he didn't like me. I taught him how the North handles such men.”

 

“He deserved it,” Jaime said, toasting the king ironically. “Slynt was a coward and a fool.”

 

“He also failed at his task,” Ser Davos spoke up. “One of Robert Baratheon's older bastards made it out of the city and all the way to Dragonstone, an armorer's apprentice by the name of Gendry. He looks just like Lord Renly did when he was younger.”

 

“Why did he go to Dragonstone?” asked Lady Sansa, turning her head quizzically.

 

“I only heard parts of the story,” Davos admitted, “but he said Jon Arryn and Lord Stark both came to the shop to see him. Clearly, they knew whose son he was,” he went on. “After Lord Stark's visit, Gendry said his master shipped him north with a group of criminals headed for the Wall. Without any explanation, he said, Master Mott told him to pack his things and go, quickly.”

 

“Father was protecting him,” King Jon realized, frowning in thought. “At the Wall, no one would care that he was a king's bastard with a king's face. If a Targaryen prince could hide at the Wall all these years, why not a Baratheon bastard?”

 

Jaime saw Howland Reed look at his king rather strangely, but the Onion Knight nodded. “I suspected as much, your grace. But the gold cloaks followed and slew the wandering crow that led them. The group scattered after that. Gendry joined the Brotherhood Without Banners, along with a filthy, small orphan boy with a skinny sword, who was in fact, a highborn lady from Winterfell.”

 

The entire table froze, except for Ser Davos, who looked rather calm after dropping _that_ bit of news.

 

“Arya!” cried the King in the North. “Arya made it out of King's Landing?”

 

“To the Riverlands,” Lady Sansa realized, covering her mouth in sudden horror. “The war-torn Riverlands, with Gregor Clegane running wild.”

 

The king's Hand nodded soberly. “Gendry says the Brotherhood meant to ransom her to King Robb, but they never had the chance.”

 

“Well, they certainly didn't mention _that_ when they came last month!” Jon Snow exploded, sounding furious. “They kept our sister hostage, Sansa! I've half a mind to ride to Castle Black and take their heads!”

 

Ser Davos shook his head. “Beric Dondarrion was a decent man, once. But that priest—he's turned them all into fanatics of the Red God. They sold Gendry to the Red Woman, and she meant to sacrifice him for his king's blood. That is how he came to Dragonstone. I've no idea what happened to Princess Arya after Gendry last saw her.”

 

“Ser Jaime?” asked Jon Snow. “Would you tell us true, if the Lannisters ever found Arya?”

 

“We did not,” Jaime answered immediately. “She disappeared after your father's execution, and we knew nothing after that. I thought she'd perished in some Fleabottom gutter, but clearly she's made of stronger stuff. Your father hired a bravo to teach her sword-fighting, now that I think on it.”

 

Lady Sansa's mouth had fallen open in a very unladylike way. “Sword-fighting! She called it dancing lessons with Master Syrio!”

 

The King in the North laughed, and Jaime saw the Mormont girl's mouth twitch upwards. “That does sound like our Arya.”

 

“Your grace,” said Brienne of Tarth quietly. “I searched for Princess Arya and Princess Sansa for some time, as you know. I heard rumors of both girls, and the latest of Princess Arya was that she'd escaped the Hound and made her way to Saltpans."

 

“She must be alive,” Jon Snow said firmly, clutching his sister's hand. His gray eyes shone with renewed hope. “If she could survive all of that without any help from northmen, she must live yet.”

 

“And the news have spread,” Jaime added, “that there is a new King in the North, and the Stark direwolf flies over Winterfell. If your sister lives, she will return home at last.”

 

“You're the last person in the world I expected to tell me good news, Lannister,” the king said, raising his goblet. “But I thank you all the same, and you as well, Ser Davos. To Princess Arya,” he toasted. “May the gods—and her sword—bring her safely home.”

 

“To Princess Arya,” chorused the hall.

 

"And if we ever see the Hound again," he added, quieter, "he will tell us what he did with Arya, or I'll burn the _other_ half of his face off."

 

"I don't think he'd hurt her," Lady Sansa said quietly. "He _did_ warn us of Littlefinger's treachery, and he was mostly kind to me in the capital. Still," she admitted, "it was a very important piece of information to withhold."

 

For a while after the toast, there was little sound except the metallic clinking of cutlery against plates, and a low hum of conversation from the low tables. The northern council seemed lost in thought. Jaime, now comfortably full, looked around the room. There was a shocking lack of guards, a strange oversight when the Starks had ruled as Kings in the North for millenia.

 

“Your grace, do you not have a Kingsguard?”

 

Jon Snow looked up in surprise. “I'm at home, surrounded by northmen.”

 

“Even so, you should have guards, and food testers. My sister might try to poison you one of these days, and Varys went missing. He has spies and assassins everywhere. A king cannot afford to trust without reservation.”

 

“He's right, Jon,” Sansa murmured, looking worried.

 

“Northmen are loyal,” the boy argued, watching his council out of the corner of his eye. Jaime saw the fat lord of White Harbor squirming.

 

“And some are not. Remember the Boltons,” his sister reminded him.

 

“And the Karstarks,” Lord Glover added, shaking his head.

 

“And the Greystarks,” Lord Reed pointed out quietly.

 

“If I have guards following me, it will send the message that I don't trust our people,” objected the bastard king.

 

“Our people would understand, your grace,” said a little girl wearing the Mormont bear. “After what happened to King Robb, we want you and Princess Sansa safe.”

 

The King in the North sighed. “Very well, I will appoint some guards. But it will not be a lifetime appointment. Our guards will be free to leave if they wish, and start families.”

 

“Your grace,” Brienne of Tarth spoke up, her voice slightly too loud. “I offer you my sword. Let me serve you and Princess Sansa as a guard.”

 

Jaime fought a snort. Of course the wench would be the first to volunteer!

 

“I thank you, Lady Brienne, and we are honored,” the king answered. Sansa beamed at the taller woman.

 

The king stood, and the chatter at the low tables died as bannermen and wildlings, commoners and lords, turned to look at their chosen monarch.

 

“It has been brought to my attention,” King Jon began, “that I need a Kingsguard to protect myself and my family. Unlike the southron kings, I have no desire to keep a man from his family forever; you may serve as long as you are able to do so, and leave when you wish to. I will not bind a man—or woman—to guard me for life. Lady Brienne, please,” he gestured.

 

Brienne knelt at the king's feet. She was ridiculously tall even while kneeling, but no one laughed. For once, the wench knelt in a room of strangers as earnest as herself.

 

“Lady Brienne of Tarth has been as faithful as any knight, though she is not of the North and owed us nothing. She found Princess Sansa in the Wolfswood and brought her to the safety of Castle Black, where she guarded my sister faithfully from the rapers and thieves of the Watch. She has asked to serve the Stark family as a guard, and I am happy to accept.”

 

The king turned, and his sister caught the look and walked to his side. Jaime suspected she'd be whispering knightly vows in his ear, but in the end, it was the bastard king who invented his own. Lady Sansa simply squeezed the king's left hand, and smiled down at Brienne.

 

“Lady Brienne, will you swear to defend the King in the North and the House of Stark from all enemies, by the old gods and the new, for as long as your service shall last?” asked Jon Snow.

 

“I will, your grace,” she answered, blue eyes glittering in the candlelight.

  
“Will you guard the secrets of House Stark, act with honor and speak with honesty?”

 

“I will, your grace.”

 

“Then I, Jon Snow, King in the North, swear by the old gods and the new that you shall have a place at our table, and no Stark shall ask service of you that might bring you into dishonor. When you wish it, you shall be released from your service with thanks, and may return to your family by the grace of the gods. Arise the first member of the renewed Wintersguard, protectors of the King in the North and his family, the Starks of Winterfell. ”

 

There was a smattering of applause from the lords, but the wildlings hollered madly, especially a wild-eyed fellow with a bright red beard. Jaime disliked him on sight, but Brienne rose, her cheeks pink with embarrassment, and walked away with a glimmer of pride in her beautiful eyes.

 

“Your grace,” called one of the crannogmen. “I would be honored to serve.”

 

The tiny man dressed in greens and browns knelt at Jon Snow's feet.

 

“We accept your offer, Dorren of House Blackmyre.”

 

The king then had Dorren Blackmyre swear the same vow Brienne had made, though there was no mention of the new gods. The crannogman rose, and moved to the wall with Brienne, looking comically small next to the lady.

 

“I've saved your kingly arse too many times to lose ye now, King Crow,” the redheaded wildling called out, and the king and Lady Sansa laughed. “I won't kneel to ye or the lady, but I'll keep ye safe.”

 

Jaime tried not to imagine what Joffrey would have done with such a pledge.

 

“We are honored, Tormund Giantsbane,” Jon Snow told the wildling, before hugging him as a brother-in-arms might. For a moment, his solemn, Stark-like face broke into a smile. “Welcome to the Wintersguard.”

 

On it went, with mountain clansmen, wildlings, and northern lords swearing to defend the King in the North and any surviving Starks. The wildlings did so standing, and the Northmen were proud to kneel at the feet of Ned Stark's lookalike. After the seventh Wintersguard, a boy-faced Norrey clansman, three more had stood up, stretching the Wintersguard to ten members. Jon Snow finally stopped at twelve.

 

“I appreciate your enthusiasm,” he told his people, “but surely, with six guards for myself and six for Sansa, we should stay out of trouble from now on. Even when Arya comes home we'll have four guards each, and a direwolf. We'll be quite safe.”

 

“I doubt that!” snorted the wildling guard Suregg. Everyone laughed at this, even the lords.

 

“I suppose we ought to have some livery for you,” the king mused. “Sansa?”

 

“I'll have something made up. Leathers, no white cloaks,” she added, glaring at Tormund Giantsbane as he made a face. “You needn't worry I'll dress you in yellow silks, Tormund.”

 

“No pink, neither!” hollered a spearwife.

 

“No pink,” the King in the North promised. “That's a Bolton color, or it was. There is no such thing as House Bolton anymore.”

 

A mighty cheer went up at this. Lady Sansa, widow of the last Bolton, did not cheer, but a small, slightly crooked smile appeared on her fair face.

 

“You needn't stick to your dull house colors, you know,” Jaime japed, once the king and princess had taken their seats once more. “Renly had a Rainbow Guard instead of a Kingsguard. Brienne there was the Blue, but there was Robar the Red, and Bryce the Orange, Guyard the Green, and so on.”

 

The King in the North wrinkled his nose in distaste. For a moment, Jaime was reminded of a five-year-old Viserys Targaryen, making that same gesture when forced to eat vegetables he disliked.

 

“There's nothing wrong with simple gray and white, Ser Jaime,” Lady Sansa said, gently but firmly. “Lord Renly's usual outfits would have fed a Northern family for a month, at least. Jon is not that sort of king.”

 

There was little Jaime could say to contradict that, so he said nothing. He spent the rest of the meal silent, observing the King in the North and his council. Never had he seen a king so comfortable with smallfolk and lords, wildlings and Vale knights. Robert hadn't cared, and Aerys and Joffrey had disdained anyone who wasn't of their blood. Jon Snow listened carefully to what his people had to say, and it showed. Jaime was sure these gruff Northmen would die for him if he asked.

 

Jaime revised his previous thought. He _had_ seen a royal behave this way, but he'd never been king. Rhaegar Targaryen had waded unafraid into the streets of King's Landing, dressed in plain clothes and carrying his harp. He'd wandered through the city, disguised, and talked to anyone he could, from the gutter rats of Fleabottom to the merchants and whores.

 

Jaime was lost in melancholy for a time, as he always was when he remembered the Silver Prince. The chatter around him went on, growing louder as the Northmen became more and more drunk.

 

Once they'd finished dinner, an increasingly merry King Jon had called for music, with a group of crannogmen happily obliging. It was fascinating to watch. Jaime had never seen dour old Eddard Stark drunk, but his son seemed to have indulged more than usual tonight. Was it worry over Howland Reed's news? Joy at the creation of the Wintersguard? Stress at Jaime's own presence here? He didn't know, but he enjoyed seeing the uptight bastard loosening up.

 

An hour later, Jon Snow was drunk enough to sing. The crannogmen struck up an old tune, a sad northern one about a girl named Danny Flint, and Jon Snow hummed along, then sang. Even his sister looked surprised. His voice was rather good, though the strong northern accent was jarring to Jaime's southron ears.

 

When the musicians started playing Alysanne, a chill went down Jaime's back. King Jon sang, his voice smooth and sad, and Jaime knew he'd heard this voice, singing this very song, long ago. Now confused, he gulped down some more ale, and kept listening. Lady Sansa, seated next to her brother, sang along, a tear falling down one cheek.

 

They sang a few other northern songs that Jaime didn't know, and then began The Mermaid's Lament. After downing another ale, King Jon's voice was strong and confident, and Jaime was frozen in his seat, trying to remember. He'd never heard the Bastard of Winterfell singing before, but _he knew his voice_. The hairs on the back of Jaime's neck prickled.

 

 _Your father feared that if King Jon's parentage were known, certain people would wish him dead, even as a babe_ , the crannogman had said.

 

Who would kill a babe? His father, for one, but Tywin had had Rhaenys and Aegon Targaryen killed, not the motherless bastard of the Warden of the North. Joffrey had killed babes as well, but they'd been the bastards of King Robert, while Jon Snow was not. Unless...

 

Jaime remembered Howland Reed holding the baby Jon Snow in his arms as he watched over Lyanna Stark's bones. Rhaegar had raped her, they'd said. Raped her and locked her in a tower to die of fever. But Rhaegar Targaryen was not Aerys; he was no rapist, Jaime was sure of it.

 

A dark-haired babe with gray eyes. Eddard Stark's eyes. Rhaegar Targaryen's voice!

 

Thunderstruck, Jaime realized how he knew the king's voice. It was the voice of the long-dead Targaryen prince, the eternally melancholy singer who should have been king.

 

_Why would Ned Stark's bastard have Rhaegar Targaryen's voice? Because he wasn't Ned's, of course!_

 

Ned Stark and Howland Reed had gone to Dorne to find Lady Lyanna. They'd found her. They'd found her newborn son, the last living child of Rhaegar Targaryen. And they'd hidden him from Robert Baratheon, and any other that might have killed him.

 

_...Certain people would wish him dead, even as a babe..._

 

Robert Baratheon would have slaughtered anyone who claimed his precious Lyanna had gone with Rhaegar willingly, and Aegon with his crushed skull would have been a pretty picture next to his half-brother.

 

The room was fading. Around him, the singing and drinking went on, but Jaime could no longer see or hear it. He could see Rhaegar Targaryen's face swimming next to his son's, his indigo eyes accusing.

 

 _I left my wife and children in your hands,_ he said.

 

 _And you left your lover and third child in Arthur Dayne's hands_ , Jaime thought bitterly. _Dayne, Hightower, and Whent guarded one pregnant woman in the middle of Dorne. I had to deal with mad Aerys, and guard him, Elia, Rhaenys, Aegon, and all of King's Landing by myself._

 

Jaime staggered to his feet. Before he collapsed, a strong pair of arms guided him out of the hall. Immediately, he recognized his savior as Brienne.

 

“You're meant to guard the king, not his guests,” he chided.

 

“I'm not guarding you,” she replied. “I'm keeping you upright so you don't vomit all over the clean floor.”

 

Jaime laughed, and let her half-carry him to his rooms.

 

“Was it your idea, the Wintersguard?”

 

“Yes,” replied Jaime. “I've never seen a king go without guards. I suppose a man that has already died doesn't fear death, but still. It would be a shame for Sansa to lose her last brother to stupidity.”

 

“I agree,” murmured Brienne.

 

They'd reached his bedchamber. Brienne poured Jaime some water, forced him to drink it, and then left, telling him to get some sleep.

 

Jaime fell onto his bed. In his dreams, he heard male voices singing. One singer was a silver-blond, with indigo eyes too old for his face. He played a silver harp with expert hands, and the song was sad.

 

The other singer had dark hair and the face of a Stark. The same voice poured out of his mouth, but the King in the North held no harp; in his hands he held a Valyrian steel sword.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...this is where you realize (if you didn't know already) that my story titles aren't that imaginative. Jaime literally hears Jon singing and puts it together. And he accidentally creates the northern Kingsguard of misfits...as one does.
> 
> I fought long and hard to reconcile show canon and book canon for this one. Gravedigger, or Brotherhood-Hound? Hound vs Brienne fight, or Quiet Isle? Edric or Gendry? In the end, I mixed them a bit. I needed the Hound up North, for a ficlet I haven't written, in which the Hound rolls up to Winterfell with the BWB and reveals that Littlefinger betrayed Ned to an outraged roomful of northerners. At the same time, I removed the show's fight between Brienne and the Hound, so she only heard the rumors that he was with Arya when searching the Riverlands, and I kept Edric Storm out of the story, because really, Gendry filled his role just fine.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, and as always, I love comments! :)


	4. Jon II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for the reveal. Howland Reed drops a truth bomb on the King in the North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...what was one chapter has split into two. I hope Jon's reaction is at least believable. I kept wavering between emotions, and there's some of everything: anger, fear, cynicism, and numb shock. As always, I love reading your comments and I do listen to feedback. Enjoy!

**JON II**

 

The next morning, Jon woke with a mild but irritating headache. He knew he'd had too much ale, but thinking of Arya roaming the Riverlands alone had worried him more than he could say. It was better than being dead, of course, but at least the dead needn't worry about bandits, rapers, starvation, exposure, and any other dangers of the road.

 

Before he could go too deep into his disturbing thoughts, Sansa knocked gently on his door and let herself in.

 

“Brooding again, Jon?” she asked, giving him a smile.

 

She sat next to him on the edge of the bed, and nudged his bare shoulder with hers. After all the time they'd spent together, she no longer flinched at the sight of his stab wounds. She also knew when to speak, and when to leave him to his thoughts. Their recent trials had brought them closer than a shared childhood ever had.

 

“Just thinking,” Jon answered, running a hand through his hair. “I'm afraid of what Lord Reed will tell me. Why would anyone want to kill Ned Stark's bastard? The Tullys were certainly offended by my existence,” he said quietly, making Sansa frown. “But they wouldn't care about my mother's identity, would they? And they never tried to kill me.”

 

“I don't know, Jon,” Sansa murmured. “But whatever he says won't change a thing. You're the King in the North and a Stark of Winterfell. The North knows you're as honorable as Father, and they will follow you.”

 

“You know I never wanted this,” the king said painfully. “I'd give up the crown in a second if it brought Robb back to us, and if you want to be queen, you need only say so.”

 

“That is why it must be you,” his sister answered, kissing him on the cheek. “Haven't you noticed that people who _want_ power are usually terrible rulers?”

 

She stood, dusting an invisible speck of dirt off her blue dress. “Come, Jon. Get dressed, and we'll face Howland Reed together.”

 

Jon obeyed, pulling on the clothes she handed him. He knew better than to show up to his council room in his old Night's Watch leathers, but Sansa considered every article of clothing carefully before giving it to him. She knew when to dress him like a northern lord, and when to make him a King of Winter. Every stitch was hers, of course, and she beamed with pride when Jon stepped out wearing the sigil she'd created for him, a crowned white direwolf with red eyes.

 

The Hall was quiet, with many already at their duties. Most of the council sat at the high table, and Jaime Lannister peered at Jon with bleary eyes. There was an odd, calculating gleam in his green gaze, but he said nothing beyond a simple good morning.

 

Jon ate lightly. There was a knot of tension in his stomach that he couldn't shake, despite Sansa's kindness. Lord Howland was not in the hall; Lord Manderly informed Jon that the smaller man was in the godswood, and would join him in his solar as soon as the king had finished his breakfast.

 

All too soon, Jon and Sansa sat in Ned Stark's solar, watching the snow falling outside the window as Lord Reed entered. The crannogman's cheeks were pink with cold, making him look younger than his years. He carried an old wooden box, finely carved with racing direwolves. To Jon's untrained eye, it looked like the hope chest that had once held Arya's sorry attempts at embroidery.

 

“Your grace,” he said, bowing after he'd shut the door. “I thank you for seeing me.”

 

“Have a seat, Lord Reed,” Jon replied. “You have the answer to a question that has haunted me for years, though I'm afraid to hear it.”

 

The crannogman smiled, easing himself into a chair. “It is understandable, your grace. I never believed Ned would keep your origins hidden for so long, at least not among us northmen. But he saw things in King's Landing that scared him. They scared both of us, and risking your safety was not a chance he was willing to take.”

 

Lord Reed tapped the lid of the box absently, a rhythm Jon recognized from the night before.

 

“There is no easy way to say this,” the man said at last. “But you have been deceived about your parents, your grace. They are not what history makes of them. I must start before your birth, however. What do you know of the Tourney at Harrenhal?”

 

Sansa blinked in surprise. Jon was no less shocked, though now that he thought of it, he'd heard vague rumors about Father and a beautiful lady at a tourney. Ashara Dayne, according to Jaime Lannister's comments from last night.

 

“Father, Uncle Brandon, Uncle Benjen, and Aunt Lyanna went to the tourney,” Sansa answered finally. “She was already betrothed to Robert Baratheon, and Uncle Brandon was betrothed to Mother. Rhaegar Targaryen won the joust, and crowned Aunt Lyanna Queen of Love and Beauty.”

 

Lord Howland looked disappointed. “Is that all?”

 

“Father never spoke much of those days,” Jon told him.

 

The crannogman shook his head. “I was nearby and fell into a spot of bother,” he related. “A group of squires thought it would be funny to beat on a crannogman, small as I am. A beautiful young woman broke into the clearing and scared them away, waving a sword and screaming that I was her father's bannerman and under his protection. She introduced herself as Lyanna Stark.”

 

“Father always said Arya was like Aunt Lyanna,” Sansa murmured, making Jon smile.

 

“She was kinder to me than anyone I've met outside the Neck,” Lord Reed continued, smiling sadly. “She helped me stand, and took me to the Stark tents, where I met my liege lord's children. They sent for a maester, fed me, bandaged me, and cheered me up. I was invited to the feast as their guest, wearing borrowed Stark garments.”

 

He paused for breath, and Jon and Sansa looked at each other curiously. Jon could tell that Sansa was just as confused about the relevance of the tourney, but they did not interrupt.

 

“Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was there, of course. There were rumors that the tourney was a front, and that the Silver Prince intended to dethrone his mad father and take his place, using the tourney to gather allies and make secret plans. I know naught of that, but I heard him perform that night. He sang, and played his harp, and all the maidens in the room wept, even Lyanna.”

 

“During the joust, a small knight appeared, with a laughing weirwood on his shield. His armor was mismatched and fitted him ill, and he never showed his face. When he unseated the squires that had come upon me, he asked only that their knight-masters teach them honor.”

 

“Uncle Benjen?” asked Jon, not sure how this related to his parentage. “He was only a boy at the time.”

 

Lord Reed shook his head. “It was Lady Lyanna, of course. She'd always been an excellent horsewoman, and she was skilled enough with the lance to unhorse some overconfident squires. She meant for me to avenge the honor of House Reed, but I'm no knight. She rode as my champion instead.”

 

Jon smiled. “She really was like Arya, then.”

 

“What happened then?” asked Sansa. Though she no longer believed in fairy tales, there was a sparkle in her eyes that Jon hadn't seen in some time.

 

“The king commanded the mysterious knight to remove his helm, but he would not. Lyanna had never intended to make a spectacle of herself, only to teach those boys a lesson. Only Benjen and I knew it was she at the time, and the last thing Lya wanted was to draw Aerys' attention to House Stark. So she disobeyed the king and rode away.”

 

Jon winced. Running away from the Mad King? Had his Aunt Lyanna been mad, or was it what Father had called the wolf blood?

 

“Aerys was incensed. He ordered his knights and his son to hunt the knight down and bring him to the king, where I'm sure a pyromancer or three would have been waiting. They found only the weirwood shield, abandoned under a tree. But there was one who saw the mystery knight's face, and it was none other than Prince Rhaegar.”

 

Jon's stomach dropped to the floor. “That was how he caught her?”

 

“You mistake me,” Lord Reed said quickly, seeing the dark look on Jon's face. “He did not threaten her or harm her in any way. Lady Lyanna said he was impressed and touched by her loyalty to me, and he reassured her that he would not give her away to his father. Rhaegar knew better than most what awaited those who displeased Aerys. She returned to her tent quite relieved, and more than a bit smitten.”

 

“He was a married man!” cried Sansa, aghast. “How could she be smitten?”

 

“The heart wants what it wants,” the crannogman told her, apologetic. “Lyanna was betrothed to a man who spent the tourney chasing servant girls and drinking himself stupid, except when fighting in the melee. Prince Rhaegar was handsome, educated, and an impressive tourney knight, though he had a political marriage to a sickly, if gentle, lady that he had not chosen. Is it so strange that he would admire a woman like Lyanna, or that she would admire him in return?”

 

“It's no excuse to steal her away from her family!” Jon protested.

 

“There was no stealing, your grace,” Lord Reed explained patiently. “They met in secret, in the woods, many times until the tourney broke up and the court returned to King's Landing. Lady Lyanna was in love, and I believe Prince Rhaegar was, too. I needn't remind you that the lady was handy with a sword; had anyone tried to steal her, she would have given him quite the scratch!”

 

“So she ran away with Prince Rhaegar?” Jon's sister asked, sounding more than a bit skeptical. “With no note, nothing to tell her family what had happened?”

 

“There was a note,” Howland Reed said. “Lyanna was traveling to Riverrun with Brandon, for his wedding to Catelyn Tully. She sent a raven to Winterfell before she disappeared. Benjen Stark received it, and he raised the alarm.”

 

The crannogman sighed. “Ned suspected that Lord Rickard had used the word _abduction_ deliberately, to protect Lyanna's reputation, but he died before anyone could ask him. In the madness that followed that raven, an elopement became a kidnapping, and Brandon rode south in a rage. Robert Baratheon believed what he wished to believe; his betrothed was gone, and Rhaegar with her. It was enough to condemn the son of a madman as a madman in turn. Once King Aerys had murdered your grandfather, war was inevitable. After all, if a Lord Paramount could get no justice, who could?”

 

While Jon and Sansa absorbed this unpleasant story, Lord Reed reached into the box he'd brought, pulling out a folded black garment with a golden band at the hem.

 

“You are no bastard, your grace. This is the wedding cloak your father gave your mother,” he said, unfolding what turned out to be a cloak: a _black_ wedding cloak, with a scarlet, three-headed dragon studded with gems. It was a cloak meant for a princess.

 

Jon had gone numb. He could hear nothing, see nothing except the hateful cloak. He'd listened to Lord Reed's tale curiously and a bit impatiently, wondering what in the seven hells it had to do with him. The answer was too simple, too _awful_ to accept.

 

The King in the North sank into his chair, breathless.

 

“They married on the Isle of Faces, in the sight of the weirwoods and the green men,” the crannogman told them. “The Faith would never have allowed it, but they weren't to know. Prince Rhaegar was sure that a war was coming, a war that would decide the fate of the world, and his children would have much to do in fighting it. He wanted a child of ice and fire—a prince or princess of Stark and Targaryen blood.”

 

“Jon,” breathed Sansa, looking at him with wide blue eyes.

 

Jon hated it. This morning he'd been her last brother, a Stark at heart if not in name. Now she looked at him as though he were a knight from a song, and a stranger.

 

“Don't look at me like that, Sansa, please,” he begged. “You said I'd be a Stark of Winterfell no matter what, remember?”

 

“You are Lyanna Stark's son, your grace, just as you are the heir of House Targaryen” Lord Reed said gently. “She was young, and without a maester or a trained midwife to help her; Ned and I came upon her as she lay dying in her bed. Your half-brother and sister were already dead, and Lyanna knew you would meet the same fate if Robert Baratheon knew of your existence. _This_ is why Ned hid you as his bastard. He loved you, and he would not allow the new king to kill you.”

 

Jon's head sank into his shaking hands. All his life, he'd wanted to know his mother's name. It seemed like the wish of a stupid summer child now. He'd give _anything_ , anything at all, to be Ned Stark's motherless bastard again. His eyes burned, but he could not even weep.

 

“From the Tower of Joy where you were born, we brought Lyanna's bones, Arthur Dayne's sword, and this box,” Howland Reed said, interrupting Jon's thoughts. “In it, you will find letters your father and mother wrote, and your father's harp. Lyanna's maidencloak is in here, as well.”

 

Jon dared not touch any of it, but Sansa reached for one of the faded letters. She unfolded it to reveal Prince Rhaegar's elegant, bold handwriting.

 

“ _Dear Uncle_ ,” she read, “ _I am deeply indebted to you for the book you recommended. I have reviewed the chapters you specified and am in full agreement. The survival of House Targaryen is indeed related to this prophecy, and I am working on fulfilling it at this very moment._

 

_I am pleased to announce that my new wife, Princess Lyanna, is carrying a child of Targaryen and Stark blood. I have been summoned to lead the King's armies against the rebels, but Lyanna will remain in Dorne, protected by three of the Kingsguard. Should the war end soon, I will take her to Dragonstone for the duration of her confinement, and announce our marriage to the court. The Martells will be displeased, but this is the only way to guarantee the survival of our kingdom, and it is Aegon, a half-Martell, who will rule after me in any case._

 

_I suspect that this child will be a girl, the Visenya to counsel and fight alongside my Aegon and Rhaenys. There is power in the blood of the First Men, and the babe will have it along with the blood of Valyria. Should the babe be a boy, however, I mean to name him Aemon Targaryen in your honor. The name of the Dragonknight and the wise maester seem fitting for a child who may become Aegon's Hand or Lord Commander in due time._

 

_Thank you for your council and regular correspondence during these troubling times, uncle. When the rebellion is ended, and Lyanna has recovered from her delivery, it is my fondest wish to travel north, so she may visit Winterfell, and I may speak with you in person._

 

_Sincerely,_

 

_Rhaegar_

_Prince of Dragonstone”_

 

“It's addressed to Maester Aemon at Castle Black,” Sansa finished, “but it was never sent.”

 

“Aemon,” Jon murmured, fighting the urge to scream. “My name is Aemon Targaryen?”

 

He almost missed Lord Reed's answering nod. All these years, he thought bitterly, he'd been with his uncle at the Wall, and he'd never known. Maester Aemon had believed himself and Daenerys the last of their line, when all that time, he'd had his namesake—his brother's great-great-grandson—within a stone's throw of his library.

 

 _A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing_ , the maester had told Sam once.

 

“Jon,” called Sansa, squeezing his shoulder. “Jon, are you well?”

 

“No,” he replied hoarsely. Then he remembered sending Maester Aemon and Dalla's babe away from the Wall, to protect them from Melisandre and her thirst for king's blood, and laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks. The sound of it was harsh, too loud for the quiet solar, but Jon couldn't stop. He ought to have sent _himself_ away from the Red Woman! Then he would have stayed dead, and he'd never have known the truth of his birth.

 

“Jon!” cried his sister in alarm. But of course, she was not his sister. She never had been.

 

“Cousin Sansa,” Jon said, a caustic smile touching his lips.

 

She flinched.

 

“Jon, you are still Father's son. _He_ is the one who raised you, not Rhaegar Targaryen. He is the one who taught you to be what you are.”

 

“There is this, as well,” Lord Reed said, pulling a document out of his pocket. It was nowhere near as faded as the letters inside the box, and Jon saw a gray wax seal with a direwolf on the outside.

 

“Before the Boltons and Freys murdered King Robb, he wrote a will, and sent Maege Mormont and Galbart Glover to find me. They brought a copy of the king's last will. I think you should read it, your grace, and know that the crown belongs to you.”

 

With trembling hands, Jon took the will. His eyes prickled as he recognized Robb's spiky handwriting. He skimmed the will until he found the relevant paragraphs, and read,

 

“ _I hereby legitimize my brother, Jon Snow, and command that he be released from his vows to the Night's Watch. In exchange for this boon, three hundred northmen are to take the black, and more will ride to the Watch's aid at need, as soon as the war against the South ends and we ride home. Should I die with no heirs of my body, Prince Jon Stark must be my successor, and lead the North's armies to victory over the Lannisters._

 

_With Brandon and Rickon dead, Jon is my last living brother, and I could not find a more worthy heir in the whole of the North. Jon is Eddard Stark's son, dutiful and honorable, and the blood of the Kings of Winter flows true in his veins. Princess Arya Stark, should she be found alive, will be his heir until Jon has children of his own. Though it pains me to do so, I hereby disinherit my sister Sansa Lannister. I fear she will outlive her usefulness to the enemy as soon as she has borne a child, and Winterfell must never fall into Lannister hands.”_

 

Sansa's cheeks were tearstained, her eyes closed in grief. Seeing this, Jon raised himself out of his chair and engulfed his sister-turned-cousin in a hug, not realizing that he was weeping too.

 

Howland Reed allowed them a moment. He stayed in his seat, looking out the window in silence, until the two Starks had composed themselves.

 

“We must show this to the council, Jon,” Sansa advised, sitting in her chair once more. “If there are any who doubted you would suit as king, Robb's word will help.”

 

“Are you mad? Robb thought I was his brother!” cried Jon. “He made me his heir based on a _lie_ , the lie Fath—Eddard Stark told to keep me out of sight!”

 

“You are still a Stark,” Sansa insisted. “I'm not the first Stark woman to be passed over in favor of a male cousin. And more importantly, the lords chose you to be king. You _can't_ throw that back in their faces!”

 

“Sansa, they think Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped and raped my mother,” Jon argued. “When they know the truth, why would any of them want me on the throne? I must give it up, or they'll kill me. You know what they say of bastards born of rape, and Ramsay Bolton proved them right! And who would want a Targaryen madman's son as King in the North?”

 

“They think wrong, and we will correct them!” Sansa replied, exasperated. “Are you so eager to run away south and leave me alone? I never believed you were craven, Jon.”

 

Jon deflated. He _didn't_ want to abandon Sansa, any more than he wanted to leave Winterfell. It was home, now more than ever. But the thought of admitting what he was made him sick with dread, and the thought of hiding it forever was worse.

 

“I was a witness, at the tourney and at the Tower, King Jon,” Howland Reed interjected in his quiet manner. “I will provide proof. Any who know you will realize that you are more Stark than Targaryen in all the ways that count.”

 

Jon had no such faith in his fellow men, not after the mutiny. But when the Northmen cast him out, at least Sansa would have a home for Arya to return to.

 

“Very well,” he said. “We will tell them. Today.”

 

Lord Howland smiled sadly. “Lady Lyanna would be proud of the man you've become, your grace.”

 

“Does anyone else know?” asked Sansa suddenly. “You were two men and a newborn babe, surely there was a wet-nurse?”

 

Trust Sansa to think of the small details! As much as Jon hated Littlefinger, the weasel had trained Sansa to survive a royal court, or perhaps she'd trained herself. Once Joffrey had pulled her head out of the songs she loved so much, she must have learned quickly—too quickly for a young girl, he pondered sadly.

 

“You're quick, princess,” the crannogman replied. “We rode to Starfall first, for that very purpose. Ned insisted on returning Dawn to House Dayne, and while we were there, Lady Ashara provided us with a wet-nurse for the journey. She'd just lost her own babe, and had no need of Wylla. If memory serves, that good woman stayed at Winterfell until King Jon's first nameday—his real one, of course.”

 

“He changed my nameday, too?” Jon asked, aghast. “Is _anything_ about me true?”

 

Lord Howland sighed. “Remember, your grace, that your father chose to hide you as his bastard. You were a moon older than Robb, his heir by Lady Catelyn. That meant that unless you became a younger son, the Tullys would have even more cause to fear you, the firstborn. You were born early, and such a small babe that no one suspected the truth. You are three moons older than you think you are.”

 

“Wonderful,” snarled Jon, fighting the urge to punch something. He was burning up with anger: anger at his mother for running off with a married man, and the son of the Mad King besides; anger at his father for taking her, and for this ridiculous prophecy that had caused so much trouble; last of all, Jon was furious with his uncle, the man he'd loved so dearly, for lying to him all his life.

 

Cool hands wrapped around his wrist, pulling Jon back to the present.

 

“Jon,” murmured Sansa. “Why don't you visit your mother?”

 

He took several deep breaths, trying to calm down. When he could finally answer at a normal volume, Jon agreed to his sister's—cousin's—plan.

 

“What would you like to do with this, your grace?” asked Lord Howland, pointing to the chest. Now that Jon knew what lay within, he realized it had been his mother's hope chest once—one more clue that her flight from the Riverlands had been planned for in advance.

 

“Have you kept it in Greywater Watch all this time?” asked Sansa.

 

“Indeed,” replied the man. “In fact, I offered to foster King Jon there, as well. I knew his reception would be less than ideal once Lady Catelyn arrived with Robb. Ned wouldn't hear of it; his sister's son was a Stark, he said, and a Stark's place was in Winterfell. So he took the babe, and I took the papers, the cloaks, and the harp.”

 

“If I wanted to hide my identity forever, I could bury the chest in the crypts,” Jon thought aloud, “but I don't mean to. I'll need it for the council meeting, and then...”

 

“And then nothing will change,” Sansa insisted. “The lords will applaud your honesty and support you as king. The North loves Lyanna, or at least, the idea of her.”

 

“I'll leave it here for now, and lock the door,” Jon decided, disagreeing with Sansa but unwilling to argue. “I'm going to the crypts. Will you come with me, Sansa?”

 

Sansa smiled gently. “Of course, Jon.”

 

After seeing Lord Howland through the door, Jon locked it, and led his sister down to the crypts. For once, no one bothered the King in the North. Except for the occasional curious wildling, no one but the Starks entered the crypts. There were no treasures down there, nor food. It was cold and dark inside, as always, and deathly silent.

 

“I used to dream about this,” Jon confessed to Sansa as they passed the first statues. “I had to find something in the crypts, and I felt like an invader. I could feel the Kings of Winter staring at me, judging me unworthy, and I screamed that I wasn't a Stark.”

 

“But you are,” Sansa protested.

 

“Perhaps the frightening thing in the crypts was my mother's secret,” Jon mused, stopping in front of Lyanna's statue. “People accused her of all sorts of things—Stannis thought I'd been fathered on a fishwife. Theon said she was a whore from Wintertown. A few servants whispered about Ashara Dayne. But I knew, deep down, that she was a highborn lady, beautiful and kind. I dreamed of her.”

 

Sansa said nothing, but her left arm snaked around Jon's waist in a silent gesture of comfort and warmth.

 

“Can you imagine me as Rhaegar Targaryen's son?” Jon said, his voice trembling. “Aemon Targaryen, a prince in the Red Keep, learning sword-fighting from Arthur Dayne by day, and playing the harp by night? My mother, a second queen behind Elia Martell? My brother, the future king on the Iron Throne, probably with my sister for a wife, and me in a white cloak?”

 

It sounded ridiculous out loud, even more so than it had in Jon's head. He'd wanted to be Aemon the Dragonknight as a child, but _not like this!_

 

“I don't understand him, Sansa,” Jon said, looking for familiar features in his mother's stone face. “How could Rhaegar think it a good idea?”

 

“Princes do what they like, and don't think of the consequences” said Sansa, and Jon heard bitter experience shining through her even tone. “Do you think Joffrey knew killing Father would start a war? His mother did, but he was too stupid to realize it.”

 

Jon winced. “Thank you for comparing my father to that little shit.”

 

Sansa laughed then, a clear sound that echoed throughout the crypts. For a moment there were hundreds of Stark ladies with him, laughing in mirth.

 

“You may have been born Aemon Targaryen,” she told him at last, “but you're Jon Stark now, the King in the North. That's all that matters. And now you see how much Father loved you; you know how much he valued his honor, and he sacrificed it for _you_. It would have been _so_ easy for him to leave you in the Neck, to be raised far away from Mother, but he did not. And when you look through Aunt Lyanna's chest, you'll see some of her letters,” Sansa added. “She wrote one to you, telling you how much she loved you and to be brave. I only saw a few lines, but I expect it was the last she ever wrote.”

 

Jon broke. The anguish, horror, and rage he'd felt throughout the morning burst out of him at once, and he fell to his knees, weeping like a child. Beneath his mother's pale stone gaze, Aemon Targaryen grieved for the mother he had never known, the mother who had lain under his feet, unknown, all these years, and for the father who had raised him—the father he had lost.

 

In a swish of skirts, Sansa knelt beside him, offering a literal shoulder to cry on. Jon held her tightly, grateful for the silent support but unable to speak. Their shaky breaths steamed in front of their faces, and neither had brought gloves. Sansa drew slow, soothing circles across Jon's back, murmuring comforting nonsense now and then. He supposed she'd had plenty of practice with her Arryn cousin.

 

After he'd run out of tears, Jon stood on stiff knees and pulled Sansa to her feet.

 

“Thank you,” he said sincerely, kissing her on the cheek. “This was a good idea. I had years of grief bottled up inside, for both of them.”

 

Sansa turned slightly, and Jon saw in the torchlight that she'd been weeping too.

 

“I know the feeling, Jon,” she replied softly. She smiled wryly. “We're in no state to be seen, least of all by the whole council.”

 

“I'm sure,” answered Jon, knowing that his face would be puffy and his eyes visibly red. “I'm just glad the Wintersguard are not following us around yet. I'd never survive the shame.”

 

Sansa poked Jon in the ribs, much like Arya had done as a child. “It's not funny, Jon. My dress is filthy now.”

 

“We can sneak around the soldiers,” Jon offered, knowing that Sansa had not climbed or explored Winterfell's dark corners as much as her siblings. “Just follow my lead, and I'll get us to our rooms unseen.”

 

His cousin drew herself up to her full height. “Lead the way, your grace.”

 

And up the stairs they went, in a companionable silence.

 


	5. Jaime II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After writing and rewriting and rewriting, I ended up splitting my original Jaime II chapter into two, to make room for a Sansa chapter in the middle. This half of it is a bit shorter than usual, but I hope you guys enjoy it all the same.

**JAIME II**

 

The morning after the crannogmen's arrival, Jaime watched with great curiosity as the bastard king, Lady Sansa, and Lord Reed disappeared after breakfast. New ideas had been spinning in his ale-soaked mind, and a restless night had done him no favors. Instead of Cersei and the wildfire, the ghosts of Arthur Dayne, Gerold Hightower, and Oswell Whent had disturbed his sleep.

 

The more Jaime thought about it, the surer he became that Howland Reed was revealing the truth to the King in the North. As the newly-minted Kingslayer, he'd paid little attention to the tiny man at Stark's side when the Northmen had passed through King's Landing. He'd been shocked to hear that the Quiet Wolf had somehow killed the Sword of the Morning and his two other Kingsguard brethren, and amused by the so-called Honorable Ned's bastard boy, who looked so like him even as a babe, that no one would have doubted his parentage.

 

Well, not until now, at least.

 

How blind had they all been? Stark had ridden off to Dorne to save his sister, a healthy young girl by all accounts, and had returned with her bones and a newborn _child_ , a babe that resembled her as much as he resembled Eddard. It was so painfully obvious now, especially when three Kingsguard had died defending Lyanna Stark and her son, the last Targaryen heir to the Iron Throne!

 

Jaime shook his head in disgust. Stark, a man with no talent for the game of thrones, had outsmarted them all. Yet he could not resent him for it. Eddard Stark had succeeded with Jon where the Kingsguard had failed with Aegon; he'd protected Rhaegar's last surviving son by sacrificing his own infamous honor.

 

Once he'd eaten his fill, Jaime wandered aimlessly around the ancient keep. Tyrion had spent most of his time in Winterfell's library, but that had never been of much interest to Jaime. Besides, the library had gone up in flames some time ago. Still, there were plenty of hallways and outbuildings to get lost in, and new people to observe. Jaime had never seen a wildling fight, and watching that lot train would be quite interesting.

 

A while after the king had disappeared into his solar, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark stepped out of the keep and headed straight for the crypts, confirming Jaime's suspicions. Of _course_ the boy would visit his mother's tomb, now that he knew she was his mother and not his aunt. Jaime wondered how the king felt about it. It must have been a bitter pill to find out not only that she was dead, but also that she'd been Rhaegar's wife or mistress. What did the Northmen know of Rhaegar, except that he'd taken their liege lord's daughter in a fit of madness?

 

Jon Snow and his sister did not emerge for quite some time. To pass the time, Jaime amused himself by watching the wildlings and Northmen, two peoples that had despised each other for centuries, struggling to work together for the good of the realm. One of the loud wildlings that had volunteered for the Wintersguard, the one the king had hugged like a brother, drilled the others with spears, men and women alike, as men in Manderly, Glover, and Royce colors watched with ill-concealed disdain.

 

It was shocking to see so many Vale knights here, when they'd sat on their hands for most of the war, but Jaime supposed it shouldn't have been. After all, Jon Arryn had been foster-father to both Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon. The older knights had known dour old Ned since his boyhood, and clearly it was Lysa Arryn—and Littlefinger—that had kept them from aiding Robb Stark.

 

As a Royce man hollered insults at the wildlings, receiving rude gestures in return, Jaime spied a head of dark hair and a head of auburn sneaking out of the crypts and around the crowded yard. He lost sight of the two Starks behind a wall, but they reappeared closer to the keep. The Kingslayer noticed dark smudges on Sansa's dress around knee height, and the king looked no better. Even from this distance, their faces looked blotchy and red, as though they'd wept.

 

The newly-sworn Wintersguards in the courtyard never noticed them. Jaime decided he'd have to talk to Snow about it later, before Cersei got assassins into the castle and the new King in the North died like his predecessor.

 

Jaime wandered back inside, now chilled to the bone. He had only a vague idea of where the family slept, but it was enough to get him near the correct corridor. Just as he'd sat on a nearby windowsill, Jon Snow emerged from his small chamber (far too small for a king), dressed in fresh clothes and wearing a replica of the iron and bronze Crown of Winter. It was an ugly, utilitarian thing, made for hardened warriors with no use for frippery. Jaime had to admit that it suited Jon Snow better than the rubies his father would have given him.

 

“Lannister!” said the boy, surprised. “What brings you here?”

 

“I'd like a word, your grace. I noticed that your new guards are nowhere near you, making their vows from last night useless.”

 

The king sighed. “I know, Ser Jaime. I haven't had time to talk to them yet. There were more important things to discuss.”

 

“I imagine so,” said Jaime lightly, knowing his face would give him away. “ _Your_ parentage is no small thing, your grace.”

 

Just as Jaime had predicted, Jon Snow looked up at him in shock, then an icy cold anger that reminded him forcibly of a young Ned Stark.

 

“Have you been eavesdropping?”

 

“A time-honored and essential skill for any Kingsguard, to be sure,” Jaime answered mockingly, “but alas; the doors in this castle are too thick for it. There was no need to try it; as soon as I heard you last night, I knew.”

 

“Heard _what_?” asked the king, his frozen Stark face tense.

 

“Many years ago, your father used to leave the Red Keep with one of us at his back,” Jaime told Jon Snow. “He'd cover his silver hair with a cloak, sit by a fountain, and play and sing until he grew bored. Maidens would swoon at the sound of his voice, your mother and my sister included.”

 

The king's mouth twitched. Caution warred with curiosity in a silent struggle that was fascinating to watch.

 

“It doesn't matter who sired me,” he said finally. “ _Eddard Stark_ was my father.”

 

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “Are you so quick to dismiss half of your heritage? Rhaegar Targaryen was _not_ the monster you think he was, and you're more like him than you think.”

 

“How so?” asked the King in the North, flexing his right hand. Jaime wondered if the boy meant to punch him. Behind him, Sansa Stark appeared, freshly dressed and combed. The sight of Jaime standing so close to her cousin gave her pause.

 

“You certainly _look_ like a Stark bastard at first, all cold and grim and long-faced. But the more I look at you, the more I see your true father. You have his build, for one,” Jaime said. “And Queen Rhaella's nose. Rhaegar and Viserys had it too. And know this,” he finished, letting a dark humor creep into his voice. “Prince Rhaegar could brood better than you _ever_ will. Not that he didn't have reason, mind you, with a mad father that beat and raped his mother when the mood struck. Varys didn't help either, with his whispers that Rhaegar was plotting against Aerys.”

 

“And where were the mighty Kingsguard,” asked the boy, his fists clenching, “when the king raped his wife?”

 

“Standing guard outside, of course,” replied Jaime. “I asked once, if we shouldn't help Rhaella. Do you know what my brothers in white told me?”

 

Jon Snow waited, silent.

 

“We protect the king. We don't protect the queen from the king.” Jaime's self-loathing had resurfaced, and his voice rose as a result. “Do you remember what you were like, when you were young and stupid and thought the Wall would be a great adventure, and the black brothers your valiant companions?”

 

“I remember,” Jon said slowly. “Your brother was the only one to tell me what the Wall was really like.”

 

“Well, Tyrion was too young to advise _me_ ,” Jaime continued harshly. “I found out all too soon that I was no valiant protector of maidens, but a hostage in a pretty white cloak. I was there to keep my father from doing anything that displeased Aerys. Under _my_ watch, a queen was brutalized, countless men were burned alive or strangled, and I could do _nothing_. Well, I could—and did—pray for Aerys to die, and for Rhaegar to take his place sooner rather than later.”

 

The Kingslayer's mocking smile reappeared. “But the gods never listened to _me_. So I killed King Scab, and then my own father slaughtered your half-brother and sister, and gave them to Robert as a coronation present. No wonder dear old Ned hid you as far from us as he could.”

 

“Only a Lannister would give dead babes as a present,” Jon Snow said coldly, strangely calm to Jaime's ears. “You couldn't even be humane about murdering children; you made them suffer, and made their mother watch.”

 

“There it is,” Jaime sighed. “There's that predictable Stark self-righteousness. My father's butchers did that, but you are very quick to attack _me_ for it, just like your dear uncle. Old Ned taught you well.”

 

“Can you honestly say that you were innocent?” the younger man asked, leaning forward, gray eyes glittering with anger. “You were the last Kingsguard in the city, and you'd killed the king. Why weren't you protecting the prince and princess from your father's dogs, instead of sitting on the Iron Throne?”

 

Jaime was reminded of his nightmares, where a sad Prince Rhaegar asked why Jaime had failed to protect his children. Now his son asked the same question, judging him unworthy with icy gray eyes instead of indigo. Hiding his shame and discomfort, Jaime raised an eyebrow. “Already thinking of them as your brother and sister, are you?”

 

“No,” spat the Northman, “but you wouldn't like it any better if I asked you about Robb, and Bran, and Rickon. Where are _they_ , Lannister?”

 

Jaime couldn't help but flinch. Robb Stark had been his enemy in battle, but Bran Stark had been naught but a crippled child, trapped in Winterfell for the Ironborn to slaughter, because of _him_. He couldn't deny it, and he wasn't sure how much Jon Snow knew of the affair. And Arya? Jon Snow had not mentioned her since last night, but his unfulfilled oath to Catelyn Stark still stung what was left of Jaime's battered conscience. The war-torn Riverlands were no place for a child to wander alone.

 

“What do you want, Kingslayer?” asked Jon Snow again, sounding exhausted. “You didn't come here just to suggest I start a Kingsguard or to chat about my father. Why have you come?”

 

“I'm here to fight, like I said before.”

 

“Why?”

 

“If Cersei is as mad as I think she is, she will throw the South into a war she cannot win, and I refuse to send my men to die for nothing. I'd rather die fighting your White Walkers than sitting on my arse in King's Landing, or watching my bannermen get roasted alive by dragons.”

 

“You don't even believe the Others exist! Why would you fight for our side?” the King in the North asked, growing visibly impatient.

 

Jaime met the boy's gray eyes with his green ones. “A long time ago, when being in the Kingsguard meant something, three of the best men I knew died protecting you in the mountains of Dorne. They knew the war was lost, and they gave their lives anyway. I want to see if you were worth their sacrifice, Jon Snow, son of Rhaegar.”

 

The King in the North grimaced.

 

“Your brothers in white died for Prince Aemon Targaryen,” he said, looking lost. “Not me. And once I inform the council of what I am, it's likely that they'll take my head or banish me, leaving your fate out of my hands.”

 

Jaime's heart dropped into his boots. “Are you _mad_? These people went to war with the Targaryens! Why would you tell them anything?”

 

The boy looked at Jaime with naked disgust. “I accepted this title thinking I was the last living son of Eddard Stark, and only because Sansa agreed to it. I know better now, and I am neither a usurper nor a liar.”

 

Sansa Stark's face was a picture of silent distress.

 

“And does your cousin agree with this decision?” prodded Jaime, nodding to his former goodsister.

 

“I told him it would make no difference,” Lady Sansa replied firmly, but Jaime saw fear in those Tully blue eyes. “He is the White Wolf, their chosen King in the North, and he's just as much a Stark as ever, only he's Aunt Lyanna's son instead of Father's.”

 

“You're as foolish as your uncle, that's certain,” said Jaime, not comprehending how someone could be so rigid in their notion of honor. He'd expected better from the boy, especially after his visit to the dungeon, when he'd claimed he was more flexible than Eddard Stark. “How many people have died to protect you, and you would throw their sacrifice away like this? In the name of your tree gods, _why_?”

 

“Do you think such a thing could be kept secret forever?” cried the King in the North. “What if Daenerys Targaryen comes to visit with a dragon, and the dragon recognizes my father's blood? I'd rather reveal it on my own terms, come what may. If there is no place at Winterfell for the son of a dead prince, _so be it._ ”

 

 _Damn him to the seven hells!_ thought Jaime furiously. A suicidal King in the North should have been no concern of his, but Jaime was loath to let Rhaegar's third child die a _second_ time, no matter how stupid.

 

“If I keep my title, which I doubt,” Snow said finally, “we may discuss the Wintersguard later, Lannister. For now, Sansa and I must attend a council meeting.”

 

He took his sister's arm, and led her away from Jaime.

 

“You stupid _fool!_ ” Jaime exploded, angry and worried beyond reason. “You'll end up like your uncle, beheaded with your own sword! You claim the Dead are coming, and you would leave your cousin to fight that war alone?”

 

Jon Snow turned back toward Jaime, wearing a small, sad smile that was hauntingly familiar. Jaime knew he'd seen it on Rhaegar's face, as well as Rhaella's.

 

“If the northern lords kill me for being the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, the war is lost either way. The Ironborn, the Boltons, and the Lannisters made sure of it. We'll never survive without dragons and dragonglass, and who will bring us those if not the other surviving Targaryen?”

 

Without another word, the King in the North left Jaime alone. Feeling twenty years older and full of dread, Jaime turned to head back to the White Sword Tower. Then he remembered that he was in Winterfell, not King's Landing, and he'd just said a final farewell to Aemon Targaryen, and not his silver-haired father. The realization didn't make him feel any better.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having far too much fun torturing Jaime with déjà vu. As always, I appreciate your feedback and will post the next chapter soonish! I'd meant to troll both Jon and my readers by having a certain message interrupt Jon and Howland's confession to the northern lords, but I changed my mind. XD That's coming up next, from Sansa's POV.


	6. Sansa II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Northern Council meets, Howland Reed drops some more bombs, and Jon gets something off his chest.

**SANSA II**

 

Sansa felt like she'd swallowed a pit of snakes. Two hours ago, she'd been utterly convinced that the northern lords would take Jon as he was, and accept him as king even with Rhaegar Targaryen for a father. Now, as she sat on Jon's right and waited for the council meeting to begin, her stomach was twisting into knots inside her. Jaime Lannister had voiced the fears she'd tried to bury, and she was fighting the urge to take Jon and run for their lives. In a moment of awful clarity, Sansa realized that her poor father had lived with this fear since he'd found Aunt Lyanna and Jon, and her heart broke for him.

 

She tried to return greetings with her usual polite smile, but it was difficult. A few lords spared her the effort by not paying attention, busy chatting amongst themselves. Lord Royce, who had joined the council as the Vale's representative, was deep in conversation with Lord Manderly about the soldiers' training, while Lady Mormont and Lord Glover discussed defenses against Ironborn raids on the western shore. Lord Reed took his seat quietly, giving Sansa a small, encouraging smile. He looked childlike next to the much taller Hugo Wull.

 

Jon was even more painfully quiet than usual, nodding to his lords but saying nothing. From her seat beside him, Sansa could see him flexing his burned hand, covered by his usual black gloves. His other hand tapped absently against the tabletop, and the direwolf glory box lay on the floor beside his chair.

 

Lady Brienne came last, closing the door behind her. At the last moment, Sansa had remembered that the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard belonged on the Small Council, and had mentioned this to Jon. Since Brienne had served Sansa before Jon's coronation, and had volunteered for the Wintersguard before anyone else, it had seemed only right to name her Lady Commander. Jon had invited her to join the council, and Sansa was delighted to have another lady in the room. Lyanna Mormont barely counted as one at her age, and Lady Tallhart was not talkative.

 

The Hand of the King stood.

 

“Be welcome to the Council of the North,” began Lord Davos, consulting the notes he'd written in his own clumsy, unpracticed hand. “Our first order of business is the division of Northmen and Free Folk marching north this very day, under the command of Lord Harwyn Wull. What news, my lord?”

 

Harwyn Wull, son of Big Bucket Wull, stood immediately, lacing his hands behind his broad back. He was the image of his father, but with a smaller belly and fewer wrinkles. “Twelve hundred men march with me after the midday meal, your grace, with provision for six moons and a wagon of ravens. We'll march northwest to the Bay of Ice in a fortnight, and sail north to the Wall from there.”

 

“Once we reach the Wall, I will send two hundred men to Sentinel Stand, two hundred to Greyguard, two hundred to Stonedoor, two hundred to Hoarfrost Hill, two hundred to Icemark, and the last two hundred to Deep Lake. A quarter of these men have the tools and knowledge to repair the ruined castles, and we bring a dozen clan and wildling healers as well, two for each fort.”

 

Sansa saw a light appear in Jon's dark gray eyes. She knew he'd dreamed of manning the abandoned castles as Lord Commander, and had begun the work before the mutiny. It was heartening to see some hope return to her cousin's face.

 

“We'll all sleep sounder with so many hardy Northmen and Free Folk on the Wall,” Jon said, satisfied, “and Lord Commander Tollett will be glad to have you and your supplies.”

 

“Aye,” chorused the council.

 

“Very well, thank you, my lord,” said Lord Davos, making a small note on his list.

 

The meeting went on, discussing provisions at each of the keeps, a message sent to the Iron Bank, and a betrothal between Lynara Locke of Oldcastle and Rodwell Flint, heir to Widow's Watch. Though Sansa was usually attentive, she was too nervous to pay proper attention to each item discussed. Then, Ser Davos brought her wandering mind back to the council with an unpleasant jolt.

 

“Lord Reed, have you any news for the council on your first visit?”

 

The crannogman stood, though it made little difference with his small stature. It was surprising to see the respect the other lords gave Lord Reed; the North had regarded crannogmen with suspicion and even disdain for most of their history, but Eddard Stark had done much to change that. Though Sansa's father had not spoken much of the war, it was well known that Howland Reed had once saved his liege lord's life in battle against the Kingsguard, and had brought Lady Lyanna Stark's remains home. For the council, that was proof enough of the crannogman's worth.

 

“I have two items to bring to the council's attention, your grace, my lords,” said Lord Reed, bowing slightly. “The first is that news have reached my scouts south of our lands; Lord Walder Frey and several of his sons are dead. An assassin slit the old man's throat as he ate, and the rumors say that his sons were baked into the pies he was eating for his last meal.”

 

The reaction to this piece of news was mixed. Lady Brienne looked disgusted, while others cried loudly that it was what the old turncloak deserved, for breaking guest right and betraying both his liege lord and his king. Even the wildlings had not believed the Freys' gross breach in human decency at first, sure that even ignorant southrons would not dare disrespect the gods in such a way. Hatred of the Freys was one of the few things the Northmen and the Free Folk had bonded over.

 

Sansa herself was torn between revulsion and a fierce, icy sense of _justice_. The three men most responsible for the Red Wedding—Tywin Lannister, Roose Bolton, and Walder Frey—had died undignified, cruel deaths worthy of their crimes, she thought. Tywin Lannister, shot on the privy; Roose Bolton, betrayed by his own son, and now Walder Frey, served his sons in a pie and his throat slit.

 

Lord Manderly surprised them all by laughing heartily, clutching his enormous belly as though he feared it would escape.

 

“Serves him right, the old weasel!” he said, wiping eyes that were streaming with mirth. “Tonight, let the bards sing of the Rat Cook, and let the wolves howl accompaniment! The North remembers!”

 

“It seems that the North been avenged, your grace,” said Lord Glover, looking deeply satisfied. “My brother Galbart was lost at the Twins. I'm glad he and all of the others will rest in peace now.”

 

“Ah,” said Lord Reed, glancing at Robett Glover uncertainly. “That brings me to my second piece of news, my lords. As I informed His Grace earlier today, King Robb sent Lady Maege and Lord Galbart into the Neck to find me, carrying a copy of the king's will. They managed to deliver it, before they fell into Bolton hands. I'm sorry to say that Lady Mormont and Lord Glover were ambushed not by Freys, but by Bolton bannermen. My people slew the murderers, but it was too late to save Maege and Galbart.”

 

“Your grace!” cried Lady Mormont, standing abruptly. “What is to be done with the Dreadfort?”

 

Sansa saw Jon start in surprise, and then understanding flooded his features. They both recognized the sudden rage of a child wishing to avenge a murdered parent.

 

“The Dreadfort belongs to the last Lady Bolton, to do with as she pleases,” he said, gesturing toward Sansa with his left hand. Sansa tried not to flinch at the title. “That said, if Princess Sansa decides to tear it apart stone by stone, and send the materials to each house betrayed by the Boltons, I have no objection. Let the whole of the North see what happens to traitors, and let Bolton stonework repair the castles their treachery destroyed.”

 

There were some angry murmurs of approval at this.

 

“Rest assured, Lady Mormont,” Sansa spoke up, keeping her voice strong and queenly, “that there will be _no_ trace left of House Bolton or their home. It won't bring your mother back, or mine, but they'll rest easier knowing their murderers are no more.”

 

“Well said,” answered Lord Glover, saddened but not entirely surprised at the news of his brother. Sansa supposed his initial rejection of the Stark cause must sting more than ever.

 

“My lords, I would share King Robb's will with you,” Jon said, reaching into his mother's direwolf box and pulling out the will. “Lord Reed has shared something I did not know before today, and I will not proceed until you are all aware of it.”

 

He stood and read the will, unflinching even as his eyes glistened with unshed tears. Jon had confessed to Sansa, one sleepless night, that he'd almost deserted the Night's Watch when he'd heard of Robb's campaign. Loyal friends had brought him back, but he'd always wondered if riding south to Robb might have saved him. Sansa knew it wouldn't have, but it was hard to convince oneself of such things in the late watches of the night, when their demons came to haunt them.

 

When Jon had finished, a few lords looked at each other in what Sansa hoped was confusion.

 

“We've chosen well then, your grace,” said Lord Manderly finally. “And I will be proud to honor King Robb's wishes and call you Jon _Stark_ , our King in the North!”

 

“Hear, hear!” said the others.

 

“I am grateful for that, my lords, truly,” said Jon, pacing slightly between his chair and the table. “I loved Robb dearly, and I am humbled by the trust he placed in me. However, there was something that both he and I did not know when he wrote this will.”

 

Sansa's hands were shaking. She clutched them together on her lap, wishing Jon would shut his mouth. Everyone was so happy about Walder Frey's death and Robb's will that it seemed a terrible shame to ruin it all.

 

“You all know that Eddard Stark brought me to Winterfell as a babe and raised me as his bastard, risking the wrath of the Tullys and besmirching his own reputation as a man of honor. I'd never known the man to lie, but there was one thing he would not say, and that was my mother's name.”

 

Lord Cerwyn frowned. “Your grace, surely you don't think that matters to us? We chose you for a king knowing you were Lord Eddard's natural son.”

 

“There's the rub, Lord Cerwyn,” said Jon, wearing a very sad smile. “I am Rickard Stark's grandson, true enough, and I loved Eddard Stark as much as a son could love a father, but he was _not_ my father.” He paused briefly, as though he were gathering his courage.

 

“Eddard Stark was my uncle.”

 

Some lords frowned. Others looked blankly at Jon. Then, Lord Flint laughed heartily.

 

“That boy was a sly one!” he cried. “I knew the Ned was too honorable to sire a bastard on any man's daughter! He brought home Brandon's son!”

 

That brought on a round of chatter, as several lords admitted that they'd always found that fishy, and of _course_ Ned would have raised his beloved brother's bastard as his own. At first, no one heard poor Jon, who was trying to shut down this line of reasoning.

 

 _Let them think it, Jon_ , Sansa pleaded wordlessly. _You'd still be a Stark, still Father's nephew, without throwing Targaryens into the mix! Please!_

 

But Jon did not look her way.

 

“My lords!” he shouted finally. “I'm glad to restore Eddard Stark's honor, but you mistake me. Brandon Stark was _also_ my uncle.” Before anyone could claim he was Uncle Benjen's, Jon went on. “I am _Lyanna_ Stark's son.”

 

The silence that followed this announcement was absolute. Sansa's hands had gone clammy and cold. Jon's stoic expression, the same she'd seen on her father's face as he waited to be executed, was _not_ helping her nerves.

 

“I accepted the crown believing myself to be Eddard Stark's son, albeit a bastard,” Jon continued, finally breaking the stillness in the room. “I never wished to usurp any of my siblings, and I only agreed because Sansa encouraged it. But now I know that I'm not even that. Should you wish it, I will step down immediately and serve Queen Sansa in any capacity she sees fit.”

 

“Lady Lyanna's son, you say,” Lord Norrey said shrewdly. “But who was your sire, your grace?”

 

“My mother married on the Isle of Faces,” Jon replied, then reached into the box and pulled out the two wedding cloaks, placing them on the table. “She wed Rhaegar Targaryen, my father.”

 

Sansa watched the council carefully, knowing that at any moment, someone could lose their temper and attack. She was sure that Tormund, Brienne, and Lord Reed would protect Jon, but the others were all unpredictable. There was a long, uncomfortable silence as the northern council looked at Lyanna's direwolf cloak, and her husband's jewelled dragon cloak beside it.

 

“You may have a small member, King Crow,” said Tormund Giantsbane admiringly, breaking the silence, “but you have balls the size of mountains! Targaryens were those mad southrons everyone wanted to kill, yes? And you admit you're one of them, just like that? Har!”

 

Lord Royce had been silent throughout the meeting, except when the news of Walder Frey had come. He stood now, surprising everyone.

 

“Your grace, this man is right,” he said, clearly not knowing Tormund's name after weeks of sitting together on the council. “You could have hidden this forever. You might have claimed Eddard, Brandon, or Benjen Stark as a father, and none of us but Lord Reed would have known. Yet you chose the truth, no matter how difficult. He did not sire you, but Eddard Stark raised you with honor, and it _shows_.” He took a breath. “The Vale will not break faith now. Targaryen or Stark, my men and I will follow you against the threat in the North.”

 

He sat, shaming the northmen into action.

 

“You have the Stark face, the Stark honor, and a symbol of House Stark that follows your every move,” Lord Manderly said, nodding at the silent Ghost in the corner. “There is no trace of the dragons' madness in you, your grace. White Harbor will follow you to the end, Jon _Stark_.”

 

The bundle of nerves in Sansa's belly loosened, and she nearly sank into her chair in relief. Something must have shown on her face, because Lady Mormont called to her.

 

“What say you, Princess Sansa? Do you not wish to be queen?”

 

“I do not,” Sansa replied. “In the years I've spent away from Winterfell, I've learned to play at southron politics that are no use here. What the North needs is a man of honor we can trust, and a warrior who can lead the fight against the Others. I agree with Robb; there is no one better than our cousin Jon for this task, and I'm sure Arya and Bran would support him if they were here.”

 

“Your grace,” said Lady Brienne hesitantly. “If you're the last trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen, does that not give you a claim over the Iron Throne?”

 

Jon snorted. “I want _nothing_ to do with it,” he said immediately. “Let Cersei Lannister cut herself to ribbons on it; we have better things to worry about, and I'll not send any more Northmen to die south of the Neck. Winterfell is the only home I ever wanted, throne or no, and it is Winterfell and the North that I mean to defend.”

 

Sansa watched several council members, most notably Ser Davos and Lady Tallhart, sigh in relief.

 

“Then there is nothing more to discuss,” said Harwyn Wull simply. “Targaryen or Snow, it doesn't matter; King Robb has made you a Stark, your grace, and we find it most fitting. You are your mother's son.”

 

Sansa smiled. “Thank you, my lord. My cousin was convinced that once you all knew, you would call for his head, and yet, he insisted on telling you.”

 

“They deserved to know,” Jon said firmly. “If Daenerys Targaryen takes the southron throne from Cersei Lannister, she may turn north next. Before the dragons come, you all deserved to know that you chose a half-dragon, half-wolf for a king.”

 

Davos Seaworth's mouth dropped. “But your grace, if you're Rhaegar's son, that makes you the last Targaryen of the male line, and you have a better claim than her own!”

 

“It does,” said Jon. “But if she kills me for it, she'll be a kinslayer in the eyes of gods and men. It would be a terrible beginning to her reign over the south.”

 

“She's more likely to ask for a marriage alliance,” Lord Glover said, raising his brows. “The Targaryens loved to marry brothers and nephews, and you're both young, unmarried, and handsome by all accounts.”

 

Sansa watched Jon turn pink.

 

“I'm sure it won't come to that. What is a Northman raised as a bastard to her? She has richer prey in the south, perfumed summer knights with nothing to do but win tourneys and play at romance.”

 

Oh, the irony, thought Sansa. Jon had just described his father in the most unflattering way possible, short of calling him a mad rapist.

 

Just as the chuckles were dying, an urgent knock on the door disturbed the jovial atmosphere.

 

“Come,” said Jon.

 

In came the Glover maester, who was at Winterfell on loan while they waited for the Citadel to send a new one. The Boltons' maester had been brutally killed some time after Sansa's escape, and had he lived, none would have trusted him anyway.

 

“Your grace, there's a raven from Castle Black,” said the old man in his usual raspy voice. “The raven brought two messages—one has the Night's Watch seal, and one has a direwolf in the same black wax.”

 

Sansa was closer to the door than Jon or Davos. A proper princess did not snatch things out of people's hands, but that is what she did. She ripped open the direwolf-sealed note and devoured its contents like the sigil of her house would devour a fresh kill.

 

“ _Dear Jon and Sansa,_ ” she read aloud,

 

“ _Congratulations to the new King in the North! I heard you took back Winterfell from the Boltons. Well done, both of you!_

 

_Travel is slow and difficult since we lost Hodor, but Lady Meera Reed has taken care of me as well as anyone could, and brought me to Castle Black. The Black Brothers told me much of what happened since I went north, and I can't wait to come home. I'm glad Jon is free of the Watch and Sansa is free of the Boltons, and I have much to tell you both._

 

_Bran_

 

_Jon—I saw Uncle Benjen. He can't come south, but he's doing what he can to help against the Others._

 

_Sansa—Do NOT let Jon abdicate for my sake. I have another part to play, and he will be a King in the North that Father would be proud of.”_

 

“He's alive!” cried Jon, looking well and truly stunned. “First Arya, now Bran and Benjen!”

 

Sansa hugged him tightly. “We have to bring him home, Jon. Send out riders, and a sled. I don't think his special riding saddle survived the sacking.”

 

“I agree. I'll send an escort to meet them and bring them home. Lord Reed, we owe you many thanks for your daughter's help,” Jon said, turning to Lord Reed.

 

“My Jojen went with them, too,” the man responded, very subdued. “He did not survive the journey, it seems.”

 

“I am sorry,” Jon replied. Sansa knew he was feeling bad for celebrating while his bannerman grieved.

 

The Lord of Greywater Watch stood wearily, and placed a hand on Jon's shoulder. He was so short that it was an awkward position for him.

 

“Jojen knew when he would die. He was a greenseer, you see. He knew he must come to Winterfell to help Prince Bran, and so he did, knowing what it would cost him. We must all play our part. After all, the Others are coming.”

 

“Indeed,” said Lord Wull. “Well, your grace, at least Prince Bran saved you the trouble this time. We'll hear no more of you stepping aside. The last son of the Ned agrees with King Robb _and_ this council: you are our King in the North until your last day.”

 

Even Jon couldn't hold back a chuckle. “It's not that I was eager to desert my post, my lords. I just couldn't bear to think that I'd stolen the title from the siblings I love, especially when a small, selfish part of me always wished to be Lord of Winterfell. _That_ , I will not take from Bran.”

 

“May I speak, your grace?” said Davos gently. “My lords, I rode to Castle Black with King Stannis Baratheon, where we met a young boy named Jon Snow. Stannis offered to legitimize him and make him Lord of Winterfell, the two things he wanted most in the world. But given the choice, he said _Winterfell belongs to my sister, Sansa_. He refused to break his Night's Watch oath, no matter how tempting. Now, I'm not a Northman, and a bit of an outsider in this council, but I will say that you've chosen well. Jon Sno—Jon _Stark_ is the worthiest king I've met, and I've met more kings than most Fleabottom men do in a lifetime.”

 

“That's going to take some getting used to,” Tormund grumbled. “Jon Stark. Do you have flowery southron names and titles too, now that you're the son of a dead prince?”

 

“Lady Lyanna named him Prince Aemon Targaryen,” replied Lord Howland Reed, amused. “Brother to Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen. Had his father and brother lived, His Grace might have become Prince of a rebuilt Summerhall.”

 

Tormund swore.

 

“Just call me Jon Snow, Tormund,” Jon said, to laughter from the northern lords. “If you call for Aemon Targaryen, I'll look around for old Maester Aemon. And I can't think of myself as Jon Stark, not yet; I've been a Snow for too long.”

 

“Your grace, the other letter?” interjected the maester, giving Jon the letter with the Night's Watch seal. Sansa watched her cousin rip it open and read it quickly.

 

“There's nothing new,” Jon said, and the whole room sighed in relief. “Edd just says that they found Bran and Lady Meera, that they're well, and that he approves of our plan to garrison the abandoned forts. And he curses me to the seven hells for leaving him with such a thankless job.”

 

“Well, then,” said Sansa. “I suppose the men bound for the Wall are free to go. But we still need to send a group to Castle Black to get Bran.”

 

“Would fifty be enough?” asked Jon, looking at Sansa in doubt. “They'll move slowly, and the weather may turn treacherous. And I don't want Bran anywhere near the Ironborn again. Perhaps we should send them the long way 'round, through White Harbor.”

 

“The sea is even more treacherous in winter, your grace,” Davos objected.

 

“He's right,” said Lady Mormont. “Prince Bran will be safer coming down the Kingsroad, now that the Boltons are gone. I will gladly volunteer ten of my men to bring him home.”

 

“I will send half of the Wintersguard, as well,” Jon decided.

 

“Your grace, if you wish it I will select a dozen Vale knights to escort Prince Bran on his journey home,” Lord Royce offered.

 

“Thank you, my lord,” replied the king. “Commander Brienne, Lady Mormont, Lord Royce, have your chosen men ready to depart tomorrow morning. Princess Sansa will see them outfitted and provisioned for the journey.”

 

Sansa nodded in agreement. Jon was good at managing supplies, especially the ever-diminishing foodstuffs at Castle Black, but this was one of the responsibilities she'd taken on for herself. It was the least she could do for Bran, and for Jon, who had more duties now than ever.

 

“Let's take a break,” the King in the North suggested. “I'm sure I'm not the only one with a growling belly by now, and we've had a few surprises today.”

 

Slowly, the council dispersed, leaving Sansa alone in the solar with Jon and his mother's box. She watched him fold his Targaryen and Stark cloaks reverently, and place them back into the chest along with Robb's will and Jon's new crown. Once the lid was shut, the King in the North had vanished, leaving only Jon Snow.

 

“I'm sorry I ever called you craven,” Sansa told her cousin, approaching him slowly and wrapping her arms around his waist. “I've never been so scared in my life. Even when Father confessed to treason, or when Stannis was at the gates of King's Landing, I still had hope that things would turn out alright, because _surely_ there were more decent people in the world than evil ones. Now? I was waiting for someone to draw a weapon and stab you, but you didn't even flinch. You reminded me so much of Father.”

 

Jon wrapped his own arms around her.

 

“I'm sorry I worried you,” he murmured. “But it needed to be done. I've never been good at pretending; playing turncloak north of the Wall took more effort than I'm willing to put in for the rest of my life, however long that may be. And I meant what I said to Ser Jaime; if they can't even consider a Targaryen, even a Targaryen born after the Mad King's death, then we're doomed. I don't have the weapons to fight the Others by myself, and it sounds like my aunt Daenerys does.”

 

“Mayhaps your friend will discover a new weapon at the Citadel,” Sansa replied, slightly muffled because she was speaking into his thick winter doublet, one she'd embroidered herself. “There has to be something.”

 

“I hope so, Sansa,” he replied, pulling back from their embrace. A gloved hand traced the tear falling down her right cheek. “What's this? Bran is alive and coming home, remember? This is no time to weep. At least, you can wait until we're all together, and then cry from happiness.”

 

Sansa chuckled. She supposed she'd known, deep down, that Jon had a sense of humor, but she had not seen much of it as a girl; she'd avoided him too often since her mother and septa had explained what bastards were, and she had missed many of her siblings' adventures and games with Jon. Although he'd forgiven her, it still pained her to know how much of her childhood she'd wasted dreaming of the south, instead of appreciating her wild, loving, _northern_ family.

 

“Come, you're the King in the North,” said Sansa, releasing her cousin. “You must eat something, or you'll faint in front of your men and shame House Stark.”

 

“We can't have that,” Jon sighed, opening the door to exit the solar.

 

One step later, he'd nearly crashed into an anxious Jaime Lannister.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should have been no surprise at all if you've read my previous story, Parley. Still, I hope it wasn't hopelessly cliched or cheesy. The show North is in such a different position to Book North (Stannis is still alive, Mance Rayder and his spearwives on a rescue mission, the Great Northern Conspiracy, etc.) that it's hard to predict how everyone would react when the two worlds collide. Let me know your thoughts if you would like. =)
> 
> Next up...a Jaime POV!
> 
> I'm getting close to the end! I can't believe how a 4-chapter story stretched into 8, and it's mostly Jaime's fault for being so fun to write.


	7. Jaime III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime calms down, offers some advice, and then gets even *more* nervous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Jon is *really* difficult for me, mostly because in my head there are two different Jons, and they don't play nicely together. There's mopey, steady show Jon, and the ice-cold book Jon, who is smarter but also has outbursts of dragon-like rage (see the times he almost killed Ser Alliser and Iron Emmett), and who is empathetic, but forced his BFF to go to the Citadel and separated a mother from her baby for the greater good. It's hard to say how Book Jon would have dealt with the Battle of the Bastards and the KITN thing, since he's a little bit *dead* at the moment.
> 
> Also, you may notice that Jaime refers to Jon as Aemon, Rhaegar's son, and even the last dragon prince in his head. This is something I started doing when I wrote another ficlet for this same series, which I haven't posted. Jon asks Dany to call him Jon, and she does (out loud), but in her head she stubbornly calls him Aemon. This is unique to people who knew the Targs well (or are Targs), so at this point it's just Jaime (and after Parley, Dany). It's just a reminder of how their perception of Jon has changed, while the northmen still see him as "the Ned's boy" and ignore his more Targaryen traits.

**JAIME III**

 

Jaime had never been so glad to see a king in his life.

 

He'd watched from a distance as the council of Northmen dispersed, joined by Lady Brienne and the king's enormous direwolf, but their frozen faces revealed nothing. It was impossible to tell if Jon Snow had made his confession, or if he'd saved it for later. Jaime had seen a maester rush in with news, so mayhaps the old man had stopped the boy from throwing away his life.

 

When the king finally emerged from the solar, he nearly walked into Jaime.

 

“You again,” sighed Jon Snow, taking a step back.

 

“Well? Do they know?” asked Jaime, unable to stop himself. Rhaegar's son looked almost amused at the Kingslayer's anxiety.

 

“They know,” he answered simply. “And they won't let me abdicate.”

 

Jaime caught a small, proud smile on Lady Sansa's face.

 

“Well then, I must congratulate you, your grace,” the Kingslayer told her, feeling almost giddy with relief. “You predicted their reaction better than your cousin or I. But that won't save your king from Cersei's assassins, or from Varys, if the good-for-nothing eunuch ever resurfaces. I expect he's gone to grovel at Daenerys' feet.”

 

“I'm prepared to listen to your recommendations for my Wintersguard,” King Jon replied. “We might as well do that now. Come in,” he gestured, motioning for Jaime to follow him into the solar. “Sansa, will you join us?”

 

“Of course,” she replied. “But I'll have the servants bring us some luncheon first. Ruling is hungry work.”

 

“Aye,” sighed the King in the North, taking a seat at the head of the table. There was a wooden chest on it, next to the king's place. It had skillful carvings of direwolves all around the sides, and a single wolf on top.

 

“This is the proof Lord Reed brought me,” the king explained, having noticed Jaime's curious look. “My mother's glory box, recovered from a tower in Dorne. Have a look inside, if you wish.”

 

Jaime did not wait for a second invitation. He opened the chest, and carefully removed the Crown of Winter that lay on top of some folded garments. Once he'd removed those, he swallowed hard at the sight of the Targaryen dragon, ruby-encrusted and glimmering in the winter sunlight. It looked just like the cloak Rhaegar had given Elia Martell on his first wedding day. The gray direwolf of House Stark followed, embroidered carefully on a white cloak trimmed with fur.

 

He withdrew the cloaks, and Jaime's breath caught at the sight of the silver-stringed harp. He hadn't seen it in almost twenty years, but he knew it at once. Even if he had not, the tiny dragons adorning the neck of the instrument were a dead giveaway.

 

With trembling hands, Jaime took the harp from the box, and placed it atop the folded cloaks. That left just the letters on the bottom of the Stark chest. Jaime recognized the Silver Prince's handwriting, along with his Lord Commander's. Gerold Hightower's letter proclaimed the truth for all to read—that the young king in front of Jaime was Aemon Targaryen, rightful ruler of Westeros from the tragic day of his birth.

 

Before Jaime could open his mouth, the king interrupted him.

 

“I'm not fighting for the Iron Throne,” he said brusquely. “I don't care that my claim is stronger than my aunt's, and I don't want to reunite the Seven Kingdoms. I want the North to survive the next winter, and my family to return home, that's all.”

 

“You could be the best king to sit on that throne since Jaehaerys the Conciliator,” Jaime told him, feeling strangely wistful. “Do you know how many of us wished your father had lived to become king? _He_ would never have squandered six million gold pieces on parties and whores, or sired six-and-ten bastards in every corner of the kingdom; I'm sure _you_ wouldn't, either.”

 

“My father started a war by taking another man's betrothed while married, so I wouldn't hold him up as the golden standard of kingship,” Rhaegar's son answered, frowning. “Besides, I belong in the North. Do you really think I would survive in that den of liars and backstabbers? Sansa did, but Sansa wore her courtesies like armor. _I_ have no such protection.”

 

“If you can make wildlings play nicely with knights of the Vale and lords of the North, I don't see why you couldn't bring order to King's Landing,” Jaime shrugged.

 

“I'll remind you that I was _murdered by my own men_ , for a start. The knights and Free Folk are only playing nicely because there's a worse enemy coming,” Aemon Targaryen replied, brutally honest. “For now, that's enough. And the age of Targaryen dominion over the Iron Throne is over. Mayhaps my aunt will restore it,” he admitted, tilting his head to one side, “but if she does, it will be _her_ throne. The North chose me to rule them because they think I'm the man for the job. What gives me the right to rule the South? I've never even _seen_ it!”

 

“What gave your grandfather Aerys the right, or Jaehaerys, or Aegon the Unlikely? What gives your aunt the right to rule a South _she_ has never seen?” Jaime shrugged. “Why did the Starks rule the North for centuries? Conquest or tradition, your grace.”

 

Lady Sansa re-entered the room, followed by a pretty maid carrying plates of steaming food and mugs of ale. Once they'd set everything down, Sansa dismissed the maid and took her seat next to her cousin.

 

“Have I missed anything of import?” she asked quietly.

 

“Not at all,” King Aemon replied, after taking a drink. “I showed Ser Jaime the chest Lord Howland brought.”

 

The Stark girl's bit her lip in frustration, then spoke. “Father showed Cersei Lannister a paper, remember? She ripped it to pieces and had him arrested.”

 

“Well then, it's a good thing I'm not Cersei,” Jaime shot back, annoyed. “Do you see any ripped papers here, Princess?”

 

They _always_ did this. As soon as Jaime thought common ground had been reached, and the Starks understood him, they'd have a fresh barb to get under his skin.

 

“Lady Brienne was Kingsguard to Renly Baratheon,” Sansa told her royal cousin, cutting her meat into small pieces and watching Jaime with unwarranted suspicion. “We could have asked _her_ instead, Jon.”

 

Jaime narrowly avoided choking on his food. “Why don't you ask her how long that lasted? Renly's Rainbow Guard was a mummer's farce. They wasted their time playing at war instead of waging it, and he only appointed her because she bested his best knights. Is _that_ the Kingsguard you wish to replicate?”

 

“Oh no, I'd rather replicate the Kingsguard that stripped and beat little girls to amuse a smirking, inbred little shit,” Aemon snarled, a sudden rage burning in those gray eyes. Now that Jaime knew to look for it, he did not see Ned Stark's righteous fury, but Rhaegar's. The Silver Prince had been furious when he'd seen his mother's bruises and scars, and powerless to stop Aerys from hurting her further. “The Hound had plenty to say about _that_ when he passed through here.”

 

“Then you should know that I was nowhere near King's Landing when that happened,” Jaime interjected swiftly, before the boy decided to remove his head after all. “I was your brother's prisoner at the time, and you know it, your grace.”

 

“It wasn't him, Jon,” Lady Sansa admitted, resentful but honest. “It was mostly Meryn Trant and Boros Blount.”

 

“I never liked them either, for what it's worth,” Jaime told them over a mouthful of meat. “Blount was a craven and a windbag, and Trant was repugnant. I never meant for you to replicate the Kingsguard of _today_ ; none of those curs are fit to wear the white cloak.”

 

“So according to you, the Rainbow Guard was useless, and the Kingsguard is no better; what, then, am I to do with my sworn protectors?” asked the King in the North, looking at Jaime with a raised eyebrow.

 

“You take the Kingsguard _I_ joined as a model, your grace” Jaime replied. “The Kingsguard of Aemon the Dragonknight, Ser Duncan the Tall, Barristan the Bold, and Ser Arthur Dayne. If any of those men could see what became of their noble order, they'd be spinning in their graves.”

 

Jon Snow—Aemon Targaryen, the Dragonknight's very _northern_ namesake—was hooked.

 

Jaime fought the urge to laugh. Was there a boy in the kingdom that _hadn't_ dreamed of becoming Aemon the Dragonknight or the Sword of the Morning? Even the king's gray eyes had lit up with interest.

 

“You do realize that none of my guards are sworn knights?” he said, hesitating. “And that they won't serve for life?”

 

“That hardly matters,” Jaime answered, shrugging again. “How many men do you know that were not worthy of the title _ser_ , and how many brave men—and women, I suppose—that were never knighted? If they fight with honor and skill for their liege lord, protect women and children and dispense justice, then they're as good as knights.”

 

“That's an interesting way to look at it, from an anointed southron knight,” the king thought aloud. “But very well, Ser Jaime. You've been Lord Commander of the Kingsguard; what duties ought we give to Lady Brienne in that capacity?”

 

“The Lord Commander is part of the small council,” Jaime said immediately. “A boring but necessary job. The commander is also the one who assigns the other guards to their duties, unless the king should overrule those orders. He updates the entries in the White Book, where the deeds of the Kingsguard are written. He is responsible for the everyday business of maintaining the brotherhood in armor—buying horses, repairing breastplates, approving squires, and spending money for knights that must travel in the service of the king.”

 

The king nodded, chewing on a piece of bread. As Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Jaime supposed he was familiar enough with those duties.

 

“The primary duty of any Kingsguard is to lay down their lives for the king if needed, but that goes without saying,” Jaime continued. “One of the seven must be with the king at all times, or at least, standing guard outside his chambers. Another member must guard the small council chamber, especially if the king attends. The others may be divided between the king's family members. Should the king fight in a war, the Kingsguard follow him into battle or guard his family as ordered.”

 

“If there is a rogue threat in the kingdom, such as the Smiling Knight, or Gregor Clegane,” Jaime finished, “the king may send some of his Kingsguard to take charge of local soldiers and destroy the threat. Or he might send his Kingsguard to infiltrate enemy castles and rescue damsels, like Ser Barristan's rescue of Lady Swann.”

 

“That will do,” sighed the King in the North. “I doubt the rules of the Kingsguard have anything about fighting White Walkers or wights.”

 

“No, I can safely say they do not,” Jaime replied, spearing a carrot.

 

“Well, we haven't done badly for our first day,” King Aemon decided. “Six of our twelve will leave for a rescue mission, and our Lady Commander is already on the council, thanks to Sansa,” he said. “I suppose I'll have to make the rest of them follow us like lost puppies, standing guard in shifts while we sleep and train and piss—”

 

“Jon!” chastised Lady Sansa.

 

“Did you have to follow King Robert to the privy, and to the brothels? He was clearly a frequent visitor to those places,” asked King Jon, sounding disgusted.

 

“Of course,” replied Jaime. “We follow the king _everywhere_.”

 

The King in the North made a wordless noise of revulsion.

 

“If you were hoping for a discreet tumble with a winter town whore, I'm afraid that's no longer possible, your grace. The Wintersguard will keep your secrets, but it is harder to hide a man with twelve shadows.”

 

The boy's gray eyes flashed angrily, piercing Jaime through. “That's not funny, Lannister. I swore I would _never_ father a bastard when I was five years old, and I mean to keep that promise!”

 

For a moment, Jaime thought he'd go into a rant. For one wild, extraordinary blink of an eye, he was reminded not of Ned Stark or Rhaegar, but of Aerys. _You woke the dragon_ , he thought, stunned. _You found the ice dragon hiding deep inside the direwolf, and you prodded its weak spot until he snapped._

 

But then, before Jaime's eyes, the dragon disappeared, leaving only the cold, even-tempered White Wolf.

 

“Oh,” the king exhaled, forcibly calming his rage. “I keep forgetting.”

 

“Jon?” asked Sansa, looking confused.

 

“I'm not a bastard anymore. Well, I never was, really, unless you ask the septons,” he said, sheepish. “That changes little enough; I still won't sire one myself.”

 

Jaime caught Lady Sansa's pained glance at her cousin. He knew why the so-called Bastard of Winterfell was so opposed to fathering bastards; she had worn the Tully trout sigil, kidnapped Tyrion, and disliked Jaime almost as much as the king seated next to him.

 

“An admirable sentiment,” he said lightly. “Your uncle would be proud, I'm sure. In fact, your father would be as well. But as you said, I didn't come here to reminisce about Prince Rhaegar, though I knew him better than anyone in this castle. Now that you've confessed all and retained your crown, what is to become of me, your grace?”

 

Jon Snow tapped his gloved hand absently against the table.

 

“You did not keep your oath to my aunt,” he thought aloud, “but you sent Lady Brienne in your stead. That was well done, in the end. I ought to send you to find Arya, but she's more likely to kill you than follow you home,” he added, a tiny smirk adorning his solemn face.

 

The King in the North shrugged inelegantly. “If you truly wish to go to the Wall with your men, be my guest. I don't suppose you brought a Valyrian steel weapon?”

 

Jaime blinked at the change in questioning. “I did.”

 

“Father's sword,” muttered his brother's former wife.

 

Jaime admitted this with a nod. “Half of it, anyway. Ice will protect the North once more. I hope that comforts you.”

 

“It's small consolation for everything your family did to mine— _both_ of mine—but I will take it.”

 

Jon Snow changed the subject before Lady Sansa could object.

 

“Now, the men leaving today will garrison six of the empty forts along the western Wall,” he told Jaime. “You and your men may choose a fort or two along the other side, between Castle Black and Eastwatch. If you agree, I will send a raven to Lord Commander Tollett.”

 

The king stood quickly, energetically as a man of his tender years ought, and walked to the bookcase against the far wall. After digging through some old, dusty scrolls, he removed a small box and the scroll he wanted and returned to the table, unrolling what turned out to be a map of the Wall and its surrounding territories, the Gift and the New Gift. The box held markers, such as battle commanders used to mark troop positions.

 

“The Night's Watch holds these three forts, barely,” King Aemon said, placing plain black markers on the Shadow Tower, Castle Black, and Eastwatch. “While I was commander, I sent small groups of men, mostly stewards and builders, to garrison these,” he went on, placing smaller tokens on Westwatch-by-the-Bridge, the Nightfort, Queensgate, and Woodswatch-by-the-Pool. “Lord Wull is taking full garrisons of free folk and Northmen for each of these.” He added six red tokens to the western forts from Sentinel Stand to Deep Lake, skipping over the Nightfort.

 

“You may choose any of the empty or undermanned castles,” he offered Jaime. “I'd given Oakenshield to Tormund, and Long Barrow to the spearwives, but they followed me to Winterfell for the battle against the Boltons. Those castles are empty again.”

 

Jaime knew enough about the Watch to know that none of them would be comfortable, and some not even habitable.

 

“Which fort is in the best condition? I brought no stonemasons or woodworkers, just soldiers.”

 

The king pointed to Rimegate and Woodswatch with a black-gloved finger.

 

“Very well, I'll take them to Rimegate, if it please your grace.”

 

“Good. Our people are very sparse along that part of the Wall. Edd will send a few brothers to show you the ropes, I'm sure. I'll ask him to send Satin with them; he was my steward until the mutiny, and he knew all the plans I had for these castles.”

 

“How is the kingsroad north of Winterfell?” asked Jaime, already planning the journey in his mind.

 

“Little more than a dirt track, I'm afraid,” answered Aemon. “A blizzard at the wrong time will make it impassable for weeks.”

 

Lady Sansa winced and closed her eyes. She looked to be in pain.

 

“Jon, is it truly so bad?” she asked in a small voice.

 

“Yes, of course. You must not remember much from our ride south, since you slept most of the way. It's winter in the North, and no road is certain,” her cousin answered, then froze. “Oh, Sans—”

 

“Bran survived his fall and the sacking of Winterfell; we cannot lose him to the _cold_ of all things! We are Starks!” Sansa cried, interrupting her king.

 

Jaime's meal turned to ashes in his mouth.

 

“Your brother is alive?” he asked, sure he must have heard wrong. His voice sounded unsteady even to his own ears. “The crippled one?”

 

“Yes, we received word from Castle Black that he's there,” the king answered, sounding as close to happy as Jaime had ever seen him. “We're sending men to bring him home tomorrow, but they'll have to brave the kingsroad.”

 

Jaime's stomach churned. It was all over. His half-formed, unnamed quest to salvage his honor and die with dignity would be over the second that boy appeared, and pointed an accusing finger at the man who had thrown him from a tower. They wouldn't just behead him; Rhaegar's son would have him hanged, drawn, and quartered, and feed his remains to the wolves. And he would _deserve_ it.

 

“Who is fetching him?” Jaime asked at last.

 

“Lady Mormont and Lord Royce offered some men, and Lady Brienne will choose from among the Wintersguard. I wouldn't be surprised if she chose herself and Pod as part of the rescue party,” the King in the North told him, unaware of Jaime's inner turmoil. “Why? Do you mean to follow them north? It would be a good idea; none of you southrons are familiar with the road, after all.”

 

He really had no idea. Jaime almost laughed, but the shame and dread he felt were too much to allow it. He wished he had not eaten so much.

 

“Oh, I'm sure the wench will be first in line to rescue another Stark,” he said, failing to speak with his usual flippant tone. Luckily, the king and his cousin were too preoccupied to notice. “I'd expect nothing less from her. If that's all, your grace, I will prepare my men to depart on the morrow. I only hope the Northmen let us pass unmolested.”

 

“It _is_ difficult to tell friends from foes these days, especially when they ride up wearing Lannister armor,” King Aemon said, his lips twitching as though he'd hidden a smile. “I'll do you a favor, Ser Jaime. Since you're riding to the defense of the Wall, I will give you my personal banner for your standard-bearer to carry. A gray direwolf would be suspicious; you might have stolen it from one of Robb's battlefields easily enough. But the white direwolf is new, and any northman you come across will know you ride under my authority.”

 

Jaime thanked him with all the good manners he could muster, and fled as soon as he could excuse himself. Under his false golden hand, his missing fingers throbbed.

 

He had to find Brienne.

 

Knowing she would be leaving on the morrow, Jaime raced to the stables. There he found the woman, supervising Pod as he packed her saddlebags. Five of the Wintersguard were with her, packing their own belongings for the journey. They looked like ducklings beside their blonde giantess of a mother.

 

“Lady Commander, may I have a word?” he asked politely, the title foreign but not unpleasant on his tongue.

 

She stood, bracing her hands on her muscled thighs and pushing up. Bright blue eyes met his own.

 

“What is it, Ser Jaime?”

 

Jaime led her outside, where the fresh snow muffled their steps.

 

“I hear you're going to Castle Black to find Brandon Stark,” he said, watching her carefully.

 

“I am,” she replied easily. It was shocking to find her so comfortable in her own skin; the North had been good to her. “As a member of the Wintersguard, Prince Brandon is under my protection, and I've traveled to the Wall before.”

 

“King Jon has given me and my men leave to go north under his own banner, and we will,” Jaime explained, “but he doesn't know what I did. The second that boy sees me, or talks to his royal cousin, my life is forfeit.”

 

Brienne's blue eyes widened in understanding.

 

“He might not remember,” she offered weakly. “He didn't when he first woke.”

 

“But he might do,” Jaime argued, shivering in the cold. He couldn't look in her eyes for long; they were too guileless.

 

“Ser Jaime,” she said slowly, softly. “You are not the same man who hurt that boy, all those years ago. I will testify of it to the king, if I must.”

 

Jaime snorted, finally looking up. “Would you thwart justice, then? I hear you chased Stannis into the woods to avenge Renly's murder; what's to stop the Starks from getting _their_ vengeance? Do theft or murder become less severe if years pass between the crime and the sentence?”

 

The wench said nothing, but her eyes spoke loudly enough.

 

“Perhaps I am merely trying to escape an inescapable fate,” Jaime said, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “My father is dead, Uncle Kevan is dead, the children are dead, my brother is a murderer, and my sister is mad. I have nowhere left to run. It is time to act like a Lannister and pay my debt, even if it means dying in disgrace.”

 

“I _cannot_ believe they will order your death,” Brienne protested, and her voice caught. For a moment, Jaime thought she would weep for him. The notion was oddly touching.

 

“I would have liked to die saving the realm from ice monsters, just as I once saved the realm from wildfire,” he confessed, feeling wistful but resigned. “It would have been a poetic end for me, worthy of at least one song, I'd wager.”

 

“You may yet, Ser Jaime,” his companion answered softly. “Don't give up now.”

 

“My men and I will follow you north,” Jaime told her firmly. “Brandon Stark and I will meet again, and as Wintersguard, the prince will order you to seize me. Seize me you must, if you wish to keep your vow to the King in the North. And I've done enough oathbreaking for us both, don't you think?”

 

He paused, looking around the yard. Though it was barely after noon, the departure of Lord Wull's men had left Winterfell quieter than Jaime had ever seen it. It was as pretty as a picture, but Jaime was in no mood to appreciate the sight.

 

“Now is not the time to hope, Brienne. I am only sorry that the duty will fall to you; the king told me that northern lords dispense their own justice, but thanks to my actions, Brandon Stark cannot even stand, much less cut off my head. You must be his sword arm when the time comes, and let no one doubt your loyalty. I will trust you and your Oathkeeper to make my end swift.”

 

A fat tear trickled down Brienne's ruined cheek. The maid would never be pretty, but no fairer woman had ever inspired him to honorable deeds like this one. When she looked at him with those honest blue eyes, Jaime felt like the Dragonknight, not the Kingslayer. Mayhaps it was the icy cold muddling his wits, but now he understood Jon Targaryen a bit better. As the last dragon prince had faced his council of Northmen with unflinching courage, so would Jaime face his death sentence from the boy he had crippled.

 

“I must tell my men to prepare,” he said, willing his legs to move before he went completely mad and kissed the wench. The urge was stronger every time he saw her.

 

“I look forward to seeing you take command of Vale knights, Northmen, and wildlings, my lady,” Jaime added, smiling weakly for her benefit. “If the North had a Book of Brothers, your entry would be impressive indeed.”

 

She said nothing, but looked at him, stricken. Snowflakes gathered in her blond hair and on her broad, fur-covered shoulders.

 

“I thank you for your time, Lady Commander. I will see you on the road.”

 

He bowed, and left for the Lannister tents without another word.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why is torturing Jaime so much fun???


	8. Brienne I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rescue party and the Lannister men head to Castle Black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done! Hooray!

** BRIENNE I **

 

As soon as the men had broken their fast the next morning, King Jon and Princess Sansa saw them all to the courtyard, where saddled horses awaited their arrival. A rough sled had been cobbled together and loaded with supplies for the journey. It would serve as Prince Bran's ride for the journey back.

 

“Lady Brienne, I wish you the best of luck,” the king told her solemnly. “Bring our brother home.”

 

“I will, your grace,” she promised.

 

“Keep the fires going throughout the night,” he advised her. “You may need them, should any wights appear.”

 

“Surely they would not appear south of the Wall?” Brienne asked, startled.

 

The king grimaced. “Wights attacked Castle Black, once. We found the bodies on the other side and brought them there, but still—if there is any chance that the Wall's magic is weakening, be prepared. Fire for wights, and Valyrian steel or dragonglass for White Walkers.”

 

“I have Oathkeeper at the ready, your grace,” Brienne promised him, fingering the sword's hilt with gloved hands. “But my sword and Ser Jaime's are the only Valyrian steel weapons in our group.”

 

“I know. There's no help for that now. Go, then, and keep your eyes open, all of you,” King Jon ordered, pitching his voice so others could hear.

 

Brienne ordered Pod to mount up. Her squire did so at once, and a Stark man-at-arms handed him a gray direwolf banner, which the boy rested on his stirrup. Brienne vaulted onto her own horse, and the rest of her group followed. Jaime's men would ride behind them, but they were not her command, or her problem.

 

The Lady Commander gave the signal to move out, and they rode past the gates to the Kingsroad. The twelve Vale knights Lord Royce had chosen were younger, more serious, and less likely to make trouble for a female commander than others she'd seen. The Mormont men were a grim lot, dedicated to their duty and sparing no time for meaningless chatter. The Wintersguards Brienne had selected for the journey could not have been more different.

 

Dorren Blackmyre, the only crannogman, had been her first choice. He was excellent at blending into shadows, and handled daggers and darts better than swords. When the Wintersguard needed to make noise, she could go herself, or take some of the louder clansmen. When she needed stealth and cunning, she would send Dorren. He was also a fair hand with the horses, and eager to please.

 

Artos Norrey, called Young Artos though he was well over forty, had been her next choice. The man was large and intimidating—though not as tall as Brienne—and a fierce supporter of the Starks, as was his fellow clansman, Alyn Flint. Both men were serious and spoke little; she did not know much about them except for their loyalty, and their skill with bows and axes.

 

The remaining two were wildlings. Not the red-bearded bother; she'd left _him_ at Winterfell to protect King Jon and Princess Sansa, since the king seemed to trust him more than anyone. She had brought along a loud, black-haired spearwife named Geisa, and a man, Joren Stargazer. She had heard whispers that the man was a warg, though Brienne had no idea what sort of animals he might skinchange into. Still, one never knew when such a skill might be useful.

 

The day was fiercely cold, but the sky stayed clear. On the first night, Brienne halted her group at suppertime, and set the men to build three fires. The two wildlings set to work at once, knowing how important the fire was. The Vale knights were more skeptical.

 

“My lady, we are exhausted from the day's ride,” complained Maren Belmore. “Why waste more of our energy cutting wood at this hour?”

 

“King's orders, ser,” Brienne replied briskly. “Fire is our best defense against wights, should any appear.”

 

The younger Templeton knight next to him snorted, but hid his reaction when Brienne turned to glare at him.

 

“Move. Now,” she commanded.

 

To her surprise, they obeyed without further comment. They had just sat around the new fires, warming their hands with hot bowls of stew, when the Lannisters caught up, led by Jaime Lannister. Once they had dismounted beside the road, just behind Brienne's group, she heard Jaime ordering them to set up camp. The red tents looked ridiculously garish against the white snow and dull brown wood of the winter forest.

 

“Well, fancy meeting you all again,” called a cheerful voice. Ser Bronn hailed the wildlings, and was promptly invited to join them. It was odd to see a southron so comfortable with them, though Brienne supposed they'd have more in common with a rough-spoken sellsword than a highborn knight.

 

Brienne finished her stew, ordered Ser Selric to take the first watch, and went for a walk, needing to stretch her legs before sleeping.

 

It didn't take her long to cross into the Lannister camp, where the men sat around their own cookfires. Ser Jaime was not among them, but sat alone in the commander's tent. An untouched plate and mug lay on his cot.

 

“Are you well?” Brienne asked him.

 

“Oh, I am just fine,” he replied dully. “I'm a condemned man headed to his death, Brienne. Don't ask me to be cheerful on the way there.”

 

“It may not come to that,” she pointed out again.

 

“I will not pin my hopes on a boy's mercy, not when I ruined his life. Leave me be, wench.”

 

Brienne had not seen him so dejected since he'd lost his hand. He said nothing more, despite her efforts, and she left the tent shaking her head. It was an impossible situation; she'd never met anyone who so deserved and _didn't_ deserve his punishment at the same time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Over the next few days, life on the road became routine. Brienne, her Wintersguard, knights, and Northmen would pack up and ride, stopping only to relieve themselves and to eat their noonday meal, and they'd meet the Lannister men in the evenings, when the second group reached their campsite. There was little interaction between the two groups, except for Bronn, Pod, and Brienne herself. The Vale knights had little in common with the wildlings or the Mormonts, except perhaps some First Men heritage, but they did not mingle with the westerlanders at all. For a side that had remained neutral throughout the war, they were far too suspicious of them.

 

When they were eight days away from Castle Black, Brienne's group set up camp as usual, and she sent a Mormont man named Leor to scout ahead. It had started to snow, and her men were having a difficult time lighting the fires. The westerlanders had fallen further behind, unused to the weather conditions.

 

“Could do with some of that magic fire the Mad Queen used in King's Landing,” muttered Dorren, huffing in disgust as the wind put out his kindling. “My lady, would you mind—?”

 

“Not at all,” Brienne replied, stepping between the snowy wind and the crannogman. Dorren took up his flint and steel again, and they fanned the tiny flames together. Slowly, the fire caught and grew.

 

Her men huddled closer to it than usual that night, listening to Young Artos' tales of the barrow kings and the marsh kings, all conquered by the Starks of old. Brienne was fascinated. Princess Sansa had told her weeks ago that she'd never paid much mind to northern tales, being so eager to escape to the south. Brienne suspected it was one of the many reasons why the Northmen had chosen her brother—cousin, rather—to rule them instead. But to her, a Stormlander, the old tales of the north were just as interesting, if not as full of courtly language.

 

“BOLTONS!”

 

Suddenly, Leor and his horse galloped into the campsite at full speed. “Milady,” the man cried, eyes wild, “At least three dozen Boltons approach from the east!”

 

The camp jumped into action, with men dropping their ale and reaching for their swords, bows, and axes.

 

“If they're coming from the east,” Alyn Flint thought aloud, “then they must have been hiding at Last Hearth. But the Umbers are dead,” he concluded. “So who is sheltering these treacherous sons of whores?”

 

“Mayhaps they sacked the place and took it when they lost Winterfell?” offered one of the Vale knights.

 

“I don't know, but it ends today,” Brienne promised them. “They are traitors and their lives are forfeit. Are they ahorse?”

 

“No, milady, they were on foot.”

 

“Weapons at the ready, sers,” she ordered. Princess Sansa had sent her away from the battle of Winterfell, but she would not fail her here.

 

They stood in a single file, Brienne, her squire, and her seven-and-twenty men. Oathkeeper shone red in the firelight, and no one spoke. It was deadly silent.

 

Suddenly, a shadow moved behind the sentinel tree in front of Brienne. She raised her sword, and the man in Bolton colors emerged, followed by his companions.

 

“What in the seven hells!” cried the knight of House Sunderland. A few of the men stepped back in horror.

 

The five men across from them had been Bolton men once, surely. Now, they gazed at Brandon Stark's rescuers with otherwordly blue eyes full of malevolence. Dried blood and filth dotted their clothing and faces.

 

“Wights!” shouted Brienne, realizing what they were from King Jon's council meetings. Freeing herself from her panicked paralysis, she lowered her sword and turned, seizing a branch from the fire. “Torches, _now_!”

 

Her men obeyed. There weren't enough branches for them all; the struggling fire had held on despite the snow, but it wasn't the roaring blaze they usually had.

 

“Double up, one torch, one bow!” Brienne ordered. “Use fire arrows if you've a bow!”

 

Before she had uttered her last word, the wight in front had charged at Brienne, shrieking. The others followed it.

 

The Sunderland boy ran forward, swinging his makeshift torch wildly. “I'll distract it!” he cried, attacking the wight on the far left. “Emmon, Maren, get the torches!”

 

“Watch out!” Brienne cried, swinging her own branch at the wight nearest her. It shrieked and moved back, but not before kicking at her legs. Fortunately, the wight was shorter than Brienne, and skinnier besides. The kick caught the back of her left knee and her leg buckled, but she did not fall.

 

With a grunt of effort, the Lady Commander stabbed at the creature's eye with her torch. As it wailed, she pulled the branch free, and dragged it along the wight's neck and flailing hands, hoping the remains of its gambeson would catch fire under the plate. It did, finally. The wight went up in flames.

 

Next to her, Joren and Geisa had tackled a larger wight. Geisa had managed to pin it against a tree with her spear, while Joren scrambled to set it aflame. Behind them, Emmon Templeton and Maren Belmore were lighting and passing torches. The cookfire was dying under the fresh snow, however.

 

“We need more fire!” Brienne cried, choosing two of the Vale knights. “You, build up the fire, fast!”

 

They dropped their bows and obeyed, finally understanding the need. Meanwhile, the Mormonts on Brienne's right were burning the remaining wights. Before she could catch her breath, five monsters lay dead in the snow.

 

“How many did you see, Leor?” Brienne asked, her heart sinking into her boots.

 

“Three dozen or so, milady,” he replied, gasping for breath.

 

Fourteen wights broke through the trees next, all wearing the flayed man sigil. The defenders were better prepared this time, with torches instead of branches snatched from the fire, but even the stoutest man felt terror at the sight of those cold blue eyes. To make things worse, they were still fighting the wights when reinforcements arrived, at least another dozen wights. Out of the corner of her eyes, Brienne saw the Templeton boy fall, a wight on top of him as the monster bit at his unprotected throat.

 

Filled with fury, Brienne skirted around Jonnel Lynderly, who was fighting a wight on his own, and attacked the creature that had killed Emmon Templeton. The young Vale knight's blood dripped down its rotting chin and beard. It was worse than anything she'd seen in the desecrated Riverlands. Though they were the worst possible examples of the species, at least the Bloody Mummers and the Mountain's Men were _human_ , and died as humans, pissing themselves in fear. This thing showed no fear, only a cold cruelty past all reason.

 

Her injured knee throbbed, and the exhaustion of the journey grated, but Brienne kept fighting, cutting off the sword-arm, and then thrusting Oathkeeper so hard into the wight's thigh that it fell backwards, leg bone shattered. Holding the thing's chest down with her foot, she dragged her torch to any unprotected skin or cloth she could reach. Its clothes and hair were wet from the snow, and not easy to burn.

 

Looking up, Brienne was surprised to see the Lannister men had joined the fight. Looking terrified, the westerlanders were shooting flaming arrows at the remaining wights, while her own men regrouped. She had lost Sers Emmon Templeton and Kyle Donniger, as well as a Mormont greybeard, Edwyle. Near the tree line, she could see three corpses in Lannister armor, surrounded by scorched wights. Several others were injured. Burning, arrow-studded corpses littered the clearing.

 

“My lady, are you alright?” cried Pod, running to her side. He still held his torch, and Brienne saw a long cut along the boy's left arm.

 

“I'm alright,” she replied, hoarse. Had she been shouting? She could not recall.

 

Pod handed her a skin of wine, eager to return to his normal routine.

 

“Thank you,” Brienne told him, watching the dead wight burn at last. “Any serious injuries?”

 

“That last Bolton whoreson broke my wrist,” complained a Mormont boy, holding up his right hand for inspection.

 

“I must say, Lady Commander, we expected a more welcoming campsite,” joked Jaime Lannister, appearing on her left side. Beneath the humor, she saw a hint of terror in his eyes. “Were those the White Walkers the valiant King in the North mentioned?”

 

“No,” she replied, “those are their slaves. They're dead men that the White Walkers raised to fight for them.”

 

Jaime swore. “And nothing stopped them but fire.”

 

He looked up at the sky, and Brienne's eyes followed. The snow wouldn't let up anytime soon.

 

“Move under the trees!” he ordered his men. “And I want more fires! There could be more of those things!”

 

“My scout saw only these,” Brienne informed him, “but it would do no harm to send more scouts.”

 

The Kingslayer nodded, and picked two of his men to scout east and west. Brienne sent Dorren to scout the kingsroad to the north, then paced restlessly around the camp.

 

“My lady, I brought my poultices,” Young Artos offered. “I can tend to our wounded.”

 

“Good, please do so,” she replied, relieved. When she'd volunteered for this mission, she had not thought of taking the Starks' borrowed maester, and she had no wildling woodswitch or healer with her. Only now did she see the folly of it. She'd never expected the kingsroad to be this dangerous! A bandit or two, perhaps, but the undead?

 

“How is your leg, my lady?”

 

Brienne looked down. She'd been limping noticeably since the wight had kicked her knee, and Artos had clearly noticed. Her armor had protected her from other injuries, however.

 

“It's nothing, Artos,” she assured him. “A kick. It will bruise and swell, nothing more. I'll sit for a spell, until Dorren returns.”

 

She sat on the trunk that held their cooking gear, staring into the flames. She felt at least forty years old. To her right, Artos went from man to man, bandaging cuts and applying poultices.

 

“I never believed in Others and wights, you know,” Jaime spoke up suddenly, squeezing onto the trunk to her left. “I didn't hear much of it while I was the Starks' prisoner, but when I returned to King's Landing? I thought the men of the Watch were taking us for fools, mayhaps distracting us to help the North.”

 

Brienne snorted. “You don't know the Northmen very well, then,” she answered. “If Jeor Mormont was anything like his great-niece, he meant every word he penned.”

 

She paused. “If you didn't believe in this, why did you come?”

 

“I thought the Northmen were scheming,” he replied, gazing at her meaningfully, but Brienne didn't understand. “Then you told me that they were real. You're the most honest person I know. If _you_ say wights exist, then they must exist...and tonight has proven us both right.”

 

Brienne felt oddly flattered. In this world of corruption, honesty was usually hurled as an insult. She'd heard the Lannister opinion of Honorable Ned Stark, and knew that her own reputation was similar. But to her, it would never be anything other than a compliment.

 

They sat in a companionable silence. Eventually, Jaime got bored and reached for his sword, Widow's Wail. Holding it in place with his golden hand, he cleaned the wight blood and guts from the shining blade, and Brienne did the same with Oathkeeper. Side by side, they cleaned the Valyrian steel blades free of the filth of battle, then shared the remains of Brienne's wineskin.

 

“Well, that was an interesting night, and no mistake,” Bronn said, appearing behind them. “It's nice to know my wildling friends were not pulling my leg. Though of course, that means they're all dead now,” he realized, frowning.

 

“I'm sorry,” Brienne told him sincerely.

 

“Eh,” the sellsword shrugged. “Friend is a relative term. A few of them tried to eat me.”

 

Wine flew everywhere as Jaime choked. “ _What?_ ”

 

Bronn grinned wickedly. “You didn't know? Some wildling tribes are cannibals.”

 

“I don't believe it,” he said, green eyes narrowed in suspicion.

 

“He tells it true,” said Geisa the spearwife, appearing with a bandage around her forehead. “The men of Skagos will eat careless sailors that wander too close to their island, and the ice river clans went to war every few years. The losers became supper for the winners.”

 

“Why would you go there, Bronn?” asked Jaime, aghast.

 

“Because I was paid to,” the sellsword answered simply. “The more dangerous the job, the better it pays.” He shrugged again, and raised an eyebrow at Jaime. “Are you regretting your trip to the north, Ser?”

 

“Every second of every day,” he muttered at last, draining the skin. “And yet, I refuse to leave. I suppose I've gone as mad as my dear sister.”

 

The Kingslayer stood, groaning as he stretched his back and arms.

 

“I'm going to bed. Wake me if the dead return.”

 

Brienne took one last look around the camp. The Mormont men, bandaged and bolstered with some ale, had taken on the task of burning the dead. Alyn and two Lannisters had taken the watch, and the fires were as high as they could be for now. The scouts had not yet returned, but she knew her men would wake her if anything went amiss.

 

She decided to follow Jaime's example. Brienne found a quiet corner under a thick evergreen, where the branches would block most of the snow, and placed her bedroll near the trunk. She was too tired to bother with her tent. Princess Sansa had made her the cloak she wore, declaring that her sworn shield deserved to be warm as she fulfilled her duties. The thick, fur-lined cloak came in handy now, as Brienne covered herself up and went to sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Eight days later, Brienne breathed a sigh of relief as she saw the familiar sight of Castle Black. Her men and Jaime's had spent a tense week, watching every shadow in case new wights appeared. They'd been lucky, however; the eight-and-thirty Boltons they had killed and burned were the only men, living or dead, they'd seen on the road. Brienne and Jaime had decided they were survivors of the Battle of Winterfell, cravens that had run away and died of exposure or from their battle wounds.

 

After their brush with the wights, Jaime had returned to his old self. Instead of moping in his tent, thinking far too much of his future death and past sins, he had become a man with a purpose. He was learning all he could from Brienne's men about the threat beyond the Wall, and sparring with Bronn during the noonday meals. For their safety, Jaime had suggested traveling together, instead of meeting only at night, and Brienne had agreed. Though her men and his were not friends, fighting the undead together had erased some of the mistrust.

 

“Lady Commander Brienne,” hailed the dour-faced Edd Tollett. Brienne could see why the men of the Watch called him Dolorous Edd. “Welcome to Castle Black, once more. And Ser Jaime Lannister,” the man went on. “When Jon wrote to say you were coming, I thought he was japing.”

 

“I'm sorry to spoil a good joke,” Ser Jaime replied. “But alas, I came to help the Watch.”

 

“Mighty kind of you,” Edd said dubiously. “If I were you I'd run to Dorne or the Summer Isles, but suit yourself. Who could resist the biting cold, uncomfortable beds, and the prunes stuffed into every meal?”

 

Brienne saw that Jaime could not tell if Edd was in earnest or having a laugh at his expense, but she had more important matters to discuss.

 

“Lord Commander, we came across eight-and-thirty wights on our way here.”

 

Edd Tollett swallowed hard. “South of the Wall?”

 

“Yes, they attacked us near the Last River. They wore Bolton armor, so they did not come from beyond the Wall; they were Northmen turned into wights.”

 

The Lord Commander swore. “I suppose I should thank you for killing them. King Jon will have to tell every house to burn every dead man, woman, and child from here to the Neck, unless they want more undead Northmen attacking live ones.”

 

He sighed. “If that happens, we're deader than dead. We can't defend Castle Black if we're attacked from the south. Seven hells, we can barely defend it from the north, and that's with a gigantic wall!”

 

Before he despaired more, Brienne changed the subject.

 

“Where is Brandon Stark, Lord Tollett?”

 

“He and Lady Meera are in the King's Tower,” he replied, pointing.

 

“I'll see him at once, if you'll pardon me,” she answered.

 

She dashed up the tower. Brienne knew from her previous visit that this was the tower reserved for important guests, so it was only fitting that Prince Brandon should be housed here. She wondered who had carried the poor boy up these stairs.

 

She knew she had reached the correct door when she spotted a small woman, brown-haired and green-eyed, guarding a particular room. Brienne had seen that shade of green only once, on Lord Howland's face.

 

“Lady Meera?” she asked, and the girl nodded. “I'm Brienne of Tarth, Commander of the Wintersguard.”

 

Meera smiled. “We've been expecting you. Please,” she added, opening the door. “Come in.”

 

Brienne stepped into the bedchamber. Brandon Stark lay on a heavy bed, which had been pushed close to the fire. He looked like his mother and sister, all Tully, but his eyes were much older than Sansa's, or even Brienne's.

 

“Lady Brienne,” he said, smiling. “Thank you for coming.”

 

“It was my honor, your grace,” she replied. “I promised your mother I'd get your sisters home. If she had known you were alive, she would have asked me to protect you also.”

 

“Sansa was lucky to have you,” he told her. “You are a true knight in deeds, if not in name.”

 

Brienne smiled. She'd never been an object of admiration for little boys, but it was much nicer than the usual derision.

 

“I understand Ser Jaime Lannister came with you,” he said, and her smile froze. “I'd like to speak with him.”

 

“I will fetch him at once, your grace,” Brienne promised, her heart sinking.

 

She left the tower, passing Meera on the way down. Her men and the Lannister men had gone to the common hall to warm up and drink something, but two westerlanders remained out-of-doors, watching the pitiful remainder of the Watch in the training yard. As she approached, Brienne heard Bronn's honest but painful commentary.

 

“Ohh, that one's holding his sword like a meat cleaver,” groaned the sellsword. “Watch 'im now, he's about to break the little fella's fingers.”

 

There was a cry of pain from the group of trainees, but Brienne did not turn to look.

 

“If _they_ are what guards the realm from the wights and White Walkers, Seven, R'hllor, and old gods help us, because we're well and truly fu—”

 

“Ser Jaime,” Brienne called, interrupting the one-sided conversation. Jaime turned abruptly.

 

“What is it, Brienne?”

 

“Prince Brandon wishes to see you,” she said, watching him carefully. She knew he would hear the sympathy in her voice. She'd prayed to the Seven for the Stark boy to be merciful, but only time would tell if they'd listened. Brienne wished she knew how to pray to the old gods of the North; surely they had more power in this cold land than the Andal gods of the south.

 

“So be it,” the Kingslayer answered. He followed her silently, making almost no noise as they traversed the frozen ground. She wished he'd jape or call her wench again, _anything_  was better than a Jaime preparing to die.

 

When she stopped outside the door to Bran's quarters, Jaime looked at her seriously. “Remember what I said,” he told her, green eyes piercing her own. “Do not hesitate to follow your orders, my lady.”

 

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and opened the door, letting them both in. Brandon Stark sat where she'd left him, on his bed near the fire. Knowing her duty, Brienne closed the door and stood against the wall, hand on her sword hilt though she knew it was unnecessary; Jaime meant the child no harm anymore.

 

“You asked for me, your grace?” Jaime asked the boy.

 

“Ser Jaime Lannister,” sighed Prince Bran. “I've wanted to talk to you for some time.”

 

The Kingslayer flinched.

 

“All my life, I wanted to be a knight of the Kingsguard,” the boy said, watching the man with Tully blue eyes too old for his boyish face. “When Father became Hand of the King, I was to go south with him and squire for a knight, maybe even Ser Barristan. But you stopped that from happening.”

 

“I am sorry,” Jaime told him, almost whispering. He sounded broken.

 

“If I had gone to King's Landing with Father, I would have died when Lannister men attacked the Tower of the Hand,” Brandon continued calmly. “Or I might be there still, as your sister's prisoner. You tried to kill me, and by so doing, you saved my life.”

 

Jaime's blond head rose. He watched the boy in confusion.

 

“I cannot forgive you for throwing me from the tower, Ser Jaime,” the prince clarified.

 

“I would not ask you to, your grace,” Jaime interrupted hastily, his voice breaking. “It was unforgivable and I know it.”

 

“But the truth is that you saved me. Because I was crippled, I traveled north to meet the last greenseer, and became a greenseer myself. You would not believe the things I've seen through the weirwoods,” he said, sounding ancient and eerie. Brienne shivered. “I saw the arrival of the First Men from Essos. I saw Aegon the Conqueror riding Balerion the Black Dread. I saw my grandfather burning to death in the Red Keep. I saw the Mad King shouting _burn them all_. I saw my father and Howland Reed fighting the Kingsguard, and my cousin's birth in a Dornish tower.”

 

Jaime's mouth had dropped open. Brienne knew she looked no better.

 

“I saw _you_ , Ser Jaime. I saw you when you saved King's Landing from the pyromancers, and I saw you stabbing the king in the back. I saw you protecting Lady Brienne in the Riverlands, and taking Riverrun without bloodshed. I saw you and Lady Brienne fighting wights on the kingsroad.”

 

He paused, looking at Jaime's face. “You're not the same man you were when King Robert came to Winterfell.”

 

“He really isn't, your grace,” Brienne said, seizing her chance to stand up for Jaime. “He has paid for his mistakes, and done a lot of good in the world since then.”

 

“If I wanted revenge, I could have your head,” the boy said, and Jaime nodded silently. “Neither Jon nor Sansa would deny me if they knew what you'd done. I don't want revenge, though. I want the Others defeated, and I saw you fighting them. That means that you must live, no matter what I might think of it.”

 

Jaime Lannister took a deep breath that sounded like a sob.

 

“You may get your wish after all, ser,” the prince said, blue eyes unblinking as he stared at Jaime.

 

To her shock, Brienne realized that the boy had somehow known Jaime's wish of dying in battle against the Others, a confession he'd made at Winterfell. Jaime looked equally awestruck.

 

“Yes, I saw you through the weirwoods,” Brandon Stark admitted, looking at Brienne. “When I saw Lannisters heading toward Winterfell, I had to see what you were up to. I was pleasantly surprised.”

 

“So you're just...letting me go?” the Kingslayer asked, disbelief oozing out of every word.

 

Prince Brandon nodded. “You have work to do at the Wall, ser. That doesn't mean I like you, or that I forgive you, but I will not risk the safety of my family—and the whole of the North—just to punish you for crippling me.”

 

Brienne could have wept from relief.

 

“You have something that belongs to the Lord of Winterfell, however,” the boy said suddenly. “I propose a trade.”

 

He took and unwrapped a bundle that lay beside his legs, buried in faded black cloth. Brienne's mouth fell open as she saw the magnificent swords within.

 

“Dark Sister and Blackfyre,” Brandon said needlessly. The golden dragons and rubies on the pommels glinted in the firelight, as did the Valyrian steel blades. “Brynden Rivers brought them north when he joined the Night's Watch. I will give you one of these in exchange for my father's sword.”

 

For a minute, no one spoke.

 

“Blackfyre is a hand-and-a-halfer, your grace,” Ser Jaime objected, almost reverently. “Even if I wished to, I cannot wield it now.” He raised his golden hand so the Stark boy could see.

 

“It is not meant for you,” the boy replied, his blue eyes honest. “This is the sword of the Targaryen kings. It belongs to Jon.”

 

“Then you mean to give me Dark Sister?” asked Jaime, and Brienne caught the awe in his tone.

 

Prince Bran nodded. “I will take my father's sword home to Winterfell, and you will keep Dark Sister at the Wall once more, where she is badly needed.”

 

Brienne removed Oathkeeper from her belt, hesitating. The sword had become an extension of herself after all this time, and she felt naked without it. Wordlessly, she offered it to the boy.

 

“Not yet, Lady Brienne,” he said, shaking his head gently. “The two halves of Ice must come together, but not now. And you may need it on the journey to Winterfell.”

 

Jaime gave the boy Widow's Wail, accepting Dark Sister in exchange. He looked like a young squire, open-mouthed as he examined the legendary sword from every angle. Brienne could not blame him.

 

“I have nothing further to say,” Brandon Stark told them. “Go, Ser Jaime, and protect the Wall as long as you can. Lady Brienne, I'm going to sleep now. Please wake me when it's time to leave tomorrow.”

 

“Very well, your grace,” she replied, then ushered Jaime out of the room and shut the door. Dorren Blackmyre stood nearby, warming his hands by a small fire. Brienne relayed their prince's instructions, and watched with satisfaction when the smallest Wintersguard took up his post outside Brandon's chamber, daggers at the ready. No one would hurt the boy on the Lady Commander's watch, and Lady Meera had earned a break from her duties.

 

“Am I awake, Brienne?” murmured Jaime, following her down the stairs and out of the tower. “I could have sworn that Brandon Stark just spared my life, _and_ gave me the sword of Aemon the Dragonknight and Visenya Targaryen. I must have died and not realized it.”

 

Brienne could not help herself. She took his left hand and squeezed it gently. “You live, Ser Jaime, and you will live a while yet. You heard the prince; you have a Wall to defend, and a legendary sword to live up to.”

 

His green eyes were wet with unshed tears. “I was prepared to die today. I really was.”

 

She knew it was true. He'd spent at least half of their journey north thinking of his death. But before Brienne could answer, a gust of icy wind rattled her weary bones. Jaime shivered violently.

 

“Come, you need a warmer cloak,” she said gently. “Let's find a steward.”

 

Ten minutes later, Jaime Lannister stepped out of his temporary chambers, with warm black clothing peeking out from underneath his armor, and a heavy, hooded black cloak over that.

 

“I've traded my white cloak for a black one,” he japed, all traces of weeping gone. “My father would roll over in his grave if he could see this.”

 

“Let him,” Brienne replied, shrugging. “The black suits you, and it will keep you warm.”

 

“Oh?” Jaime Lannister raised an eyebrow. “I know something that would keep me warmer,” he said teasingly, and Brienne's face heated instantly.

 

“Do not mock me, Kingslayer,” she said seriously.

 

“Who is mocking?” he answered, sounding as innocent as he was capable. “I meant every word. You're my favorite wench at the Wall, you know, and mayhaps in the whole of the North.”

 

There was no doubt about it: her face must be as crimson as the Targaryen dragon by now.

 

“Will you keep me warm before you go back to Winterfell, Brienne?” Jaime asked her with a grin. If she hadn't known any better, she would have thought him in earnest.

 

“If it's warmth you want, I'm sure Mole's Town has whores or wildling women to suit your tastes,” she told him, unable to keep the disgust from her voice.

 

Jaime's expression turned gentle. “Will Mole's Town have a stubborn giantess with more honor than sense, and eyes as blue as the sea of her homeland?”

 

Brienne froze. Before she could recover her wits and flee, Jaime Lannister stepped inches away from her, looking at her face with fond amusement.

 

“Will they have a Lady Commander who can best me with a sword?”

 

“Is that what you want?” Brienne said shakily, the words catching in her throat.

 

Two hands, one gold and one flesh, wrapped around her armored waist, pulling her to Jaime. He tilted his face up to hers, and kissed her as gently as a knight from a song. It was nothing like the forceful kiss Owen Inchfield had given her, so long ago, before she'd pushed him into a campfire.

 

When he pulled away, they were both breathless. Just as Jaime had struggled with disbelief earlier, Brienne could not believe this was happening. She pinched her arm hard enough to bruise.

 

“I'm off to Rimegate tomorrow,” Jaime finally said, “but I will not join the Night's Watch. Should I survive this war against ice monsters and dragons, I would be happy to win glory, hold lands, and father children...with _you_ , if you'll have me.”

 

A warm, indescribable feeling filled Brienne. For the first time in her life, a man had complimented her, and she _believed_ him. She'd always known she was undesirable; she was too tall, too freckled, too ungainly, and too good at manly arts instead of needlework, music, and looking pretty, but she had somehow caught the heart of this irritating, confusing, wonderful man.

 

“I'd like that,” she confessed shyly. “But I vowed that I would not marry a man unless he could best me in a fight.”

 

“Have pity on a one-handed old swordsman, wench” Jaime Lannister breathed. “What if you tie your right hand behind your back before we spar?”

 

Brienne took a moment to consider the request. “That seems fair.”

 

Jaime kissed her again. “Good. It's a deal.”

 

She knew her smile was too large and unattractive; she'd been told so several times. But now, in Jaime's arms, she could not stop herself from smiling broadly. He didn't seem to mind her crooked teeth.

 

“I've seduced the Lady Commander,” he teased. “That thought will keep me warm until I see you again. Someday there may be a song about us: the disgraced Kingsguard and the valiant Wintersguard, who started off as enemies and died as lovers, in each other's arms.”

 

Brienne had thought she could not blush any redder. She'd been wrong.

 

“You'll have time to compose the song yourself, while you keep watch atop the Wall. For now, our duties await, ser,”

 

And, still smiling and red as the setting sun, she returned to her chamber. If the Lannister men and Night's Watchmen gave her odd looks, she pretended not to notice.

 

The next morning, two groups rode out of Castle Black. Brienne led one group south, back down the Kingsroad to Winterfell, with Lady Meera Reed and Prince Brandon Stark riding the sled they'd brought for them. Two sturdy garrons dragged it along the fresh snow, and Mormont men, Vale knights, and the Wintersguard surrounded it. The gray direwolf of House Stark and the white direwolf of King Jon fluttered above their heads.

 

The other group wore Night's Watch black over Lannister armor. Before they left the road, Jaime Lannister turned, and gave the Lady Commander a salute and a cheeky grin. Then the westerlanders headed east, and Brienne lost sight of them. Instinctively, Brienne reached for the pommel of Oathkeeper, wanting to touch something of Jaime's.

 

She dearly hoped she would see Jaime again, alive and busy restoring his honor through bravery against the wights and White Walkers. He owed her a sparring match, and more besides.

 

“Lady Commander?” called Young Artos, watching her with a puzzled frown.

 

Brienne shook her head to clear it, and gave the order to move forward. If the gods were good, the journey to Winterfell would be dull and peaceful, nothing like the journey north had been. Either way, she would take Brandon Stark home.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...this is Jaime's ending for now. Do you want him to die for what he did to Bran? He could still die. Do you want him to redeem himself? He could do that too. He has *options* now. ;-)
> 
> As I wrote this chapter I kept thinking that it seemed familiar. Then I realized that I've written wight attacks before, just not in the ASOIAF universe, and I haven't updated the fic where that happens in two years. D'oh! So I'm going to crawl back under a rock until the embarrassment passes (or I have a new chapter of The Fading to post, hehe).
> 
> If I re-emerge, I may write more of this series both before this story (how Littlefinger got 'outed', the Brotherhood, etc) and after (Arya's return, Dany and Jon ruling their respective kingdoms, the Wall crashing down, what Bran does with the two halves of Ice, the reappearance of Gendry, etc.) If not, farewell! It's been fun, and I've enjoyed reading all your comments and discussing characters and possible futures with you all.


End file.
